
Book n \lQ:7 



GRINS AND WRINKLES 



FOOD FOE THOUGHT AND LAUGHTER. 



j/m'GRIGOR ALLAN, 



AUTHOR OF " ERNEST BASIL," &C 



" Il-y-a partout de quoi rire et de quoi pleurer."— Fenelon. 



LONDON : 
JAMES BLACKWOOD, PATERNOSTER ROW. 

1858. 



?«$& 



LONDON" ! 

HADDON, BROTHERS, AND CO., PRINTERS, 

CASTLE STREET, FINSBURY, 






TO BROWN CHAMBERLLN, ESQ., 



MONTREAL, CANADA EAST. 



My Dear Chamberlin, 

It needed not your warm and welcome letter, in 
acknowledgment of mine, to convince me that our 
long separation had not interrupted our mutual 
feelings of friendship. It is ten years since we 
grasped each other's hands, and we can truly say — 

" And seas between us baith hae rair'd, 
Sin' days o' auld lang syne." 

You may then imagine with what sincere pleasure 
I dedicate to you the following pages. In the 
scenes laid on your side of the Atlantic, you will 
find evidences that I have not forgotten that 
happy episode of my life spent beside the St. 
Lawrence and in the Townships. 

A colonist by education, though not by birth, 
I still cling fondly to all my reminiscences of 



IV DEDICATORY LETTER. 

British America, and observe with interest the 
rising fortunes of that fair portion of the world, 
soon, I trust, to be consolidated under one govern- 
ment, and to possess a prosperous nationality of 
her own. That there is a bright future for the 
colonies, I firmly believe. Perhaps they are 
destined some day to be the refuge and home of 
liberty in the neio, as England is in the old world. 
But this is not the place to enter into a political 
disquisition (though it is a subject which I would 
gladly dwell upon at another time), for I can 
honestly apply to myself the well-known line of 
Horace — 

" Caelum, non aninmm mutant, qui trans mare currant." 
So, in the hope that we may meet again, 

I remain, my dear Chamberlin, 

Your sincere and attached friend, 

James M'Grigor Allan. 

London, 
November, 1857. 



CONTENTS. 



PART FIRST. 

IN THE NEW WORLD. 

PAGE 

Captain Ardmore ; or, the Rose of Chambly .... 1 

The Young Lady on a Visit 60 

The Shaksperian Wooer ; or, Lessons in Love ... 78 

Winter-Travelling in Canada . . . . . . 103 

The Unremarkable Female .114 

Mrs. Bl — m — r on Female Emancipation .... 128 
St. Clare ; or, the Dangers of Flirtation . . . .131 

Dialogue in a Railway-Car 195 

PART SECOND. 

IN THE OLD WORLD. 

The Doomed Sisters 19S 

Remarks, illustrative of the Life, Character, Habits, Conver- 
versation, &c, of Mr. Richard Lovelark, Student of the 

Veterinary College, Edinburgh 269 

Aunt Martha's First and Only Love 290 

The Artist and his Friends 299 

Kate Kilman ......... 322 

Mrs. Raphael Pose — a Sequel to Kate Kilman . . « 335 



GRINS AND WRINKLES. 



PAET I. 
CAPTAIN AKDMORE; 

OR, 

THE EOSE OF CHAMBLY. 



" Love is not love, 
Which alters when it alteration finds. 
Or bends with the remover to remove." 

Shakspere. 

The military sleighing -club of Montreal was in all 
its glory, when I was taking one of my accustomed 
long walks round the mountain, and had just arrived 
at a slight eminence, about a few hundred yards in 
front of which, the road, after a rather steep descent, 
made an abrupt and ugly turn, crossing a deep ravine 
over a wooden bridge. These natural difficulties 
were further increased from the fact, that the bridge, 
which was quite a new structure, had not yet re- 
ceived a balustrade. The risk, of course, to pas- 

B 



Z GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

sengers whose horses were skittish and unruly, was 
imminent ; and a fall from the bridge could hardly 
escape being fatal, as the height was not less than 
sixty feet. 

Just as I had arrived at this spot, I was startled 
by the clear, shrill notes of a key-bugle, followed 
directly by the jingling of the sleigh-bells, and then 
the brilliant cortege of the sleighing-club appeared, 
consisting of fourteen sleighs. I drew aside to let 
them pass, w T ith a pulse considerably quickened as 
I thought of the unprotected state of the bridge. 

Cornet Lord Royster, of the regiment of 

dragoons, led the van, driving four-in-hand, in a 
sleigh more remarkable for its great height than 
for any particular beauty of shape or style. Surely 
he will pull up, at least his servant will get out 
and walk the horses over the dangerous pass, I 
thought, almost said. Not a bit of it. Lord Royster, 
either from not being previously aware of the actual 
condition of the bridge, or knowing it, and trusting 
fully to his own powers as a whip, and mastery 
over his horses, only slackened his speed sufficiently 
to round the ugly turn without risk of upsetting, 
and then passed the bridge at the full trot, the timbers 
quivering, and resounding under the tread of the 
four steeds, who were urged into a canter as the 
danger w T as left behind- The rest of the charioteers 
followed his example, either equally indifferent to 
the risk, or disdaining to show more circumspection 
with a pair, or tandem, than Lord Royster had dis- 



CAPTAIN ARDM0RE. 3 

played with a four-in-hand. The only exception 
was the grey-haired colonel, who brought up the 
rear. He stopped his sleigh, got out, and crossed 
the bridge on foot, making his servant- lead over the 
horses. 

I confess my heart beat more freely when I saw 
the last sleigh disappear on the other side, and heard 
the last faint echo of the key-bugle. But, where then, 
was Captain Ardmore's elegant cariole, with its well- 
matched bay tandem (for I knew all the equipages 
by sight) ; why had he not joined the " meet" to-day ? 
As I mentally asked myself this question, I stepped 
into the road, and prepared to renew my walk, when 
casting my eyes in the direction from which the 
sleighs had come, I perceived at a great distance, but 
advancing at a furious pace, two horses in a tandem 
dragging a light cariole behind them. I had an 
ample view of the road for a quarter of a mile, so 
that I could discern that the driver had lost all com- 
mand over the horses, who were tearing along like 
mad things, and decreasing the distance between us 
with fearful rapidity. As they approached I could 
discern that one of the occupants of the vehicle was 
a lady. The other person, a man, was making 
desperate but futile efforts to catch the reins, which 
appeared to be flying loose on the backs of the 
horses. 

I remember in that moment asking mvself the 
question — What was to be done ? Could I — should 
I attempt to stop the horses, and peril my own life 

b 2 



4 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

to save two strangers from almost inevitable death ? 
for if the horses were not stopped before they reached 
the bridge, I knew that a fatal catastrophe must be 
the result. The sleigh would be sure to upset at 
the sharp turn, and slue over the bridge, precipi- 
tating its occupants into the ravine, and in all pro- 
bability, by its weight, drag the horses after it. 

It was a moment of fearful suspense. Without 
any fixed plan, when the infuriated horses had arrived 
at within one hundred yards distance, I stood in the 
middle of the road, extending my arms, and shouting 
with the whole force of my lungs. But frightened 
runaway horses are for the time blind. They came 
on with a speed little, if at all diminished. In a 
moment, had I preserved my position, I should have 
been trampled under foot. I cannot relate methodi- 
cally what followed. I remember starting back 
instinctively, and then grasping at the loose rein 
which dangled from the head of the leader, as he 
almost brushed against me in passing. I clutched 
and clung to it with desperation — there was a severe 
strain — I was dragged some yards — then the leader 
fell heavily on his side — a moment more and the 
shaft-horse had stumbled over him ; the sleigh was 
stopped within ten yards of the sharp turn leading 
over the unprotected bridge. I had saved the lives of 
Miss Vane, and Captain Ardmore, of the regi- 
ment of dragoons. 

In a few minutes the kicking and plunging horses 
were surrounded by a knot of persons (including the 



CAPTAIN ARDMORE. O 

captain's servant), who had been in hot pursuit from 
the inn, where the animals had taken fright, and 
from whence they had started before the man, who 
had alighted to buckle a rein, could achieve his 
object. This, of course, accounted for the total 
want of command of Captain Ardmore over theme 
In due time the horses were got upon their legs, 
and after being soothed and patted, led carefully 
over the bridge. While this was taking place, Miss 
Vane and Captain Ardmore were profuse in their 
acknowledgments to me, for what they were pleased 
to term my heroic conduct ; and Captain Ardmore 
pressed me so strongly to let him have the pleasure 
of taking me to town, that I at length consented. 
And thus it was that I became personally acquainted 
with Miss Vane and Captain Ardmore. 



Captain Ardmore was well known to me by sight, 
I having frequently encountered him at evening- 
parties, although I had never made his acquaintance 
until the providential escape in which I had luckily 
been instrumental. I knew him by reputation to 
be one of the most agreeable and fashionable of the 
officers of any of the regiments then quartered at 
Montreal. A finer specimen of manhood I had 
never beheld* He was at least six feet two inches in 
height, but his figure united strength and symmetry in 
such just proportions, that I never suspected him to 
be above the ordinary standard, until I saw him in 
close proximity with other men. He was a genuine 



6 GRINS AND WRINKLES, 

Saxon in appearance, with light hair and blue eyes, 
and his beard, whiskers, and moustache, which were 
worn in great profusion, were of the same golden 
yellow tinge, without the slightest tendency to red. 
His age might have been twenty-five or twenty-six. 

Common report had already informed me that 
Captain Ardmore was not a mere military Adonis, 
one of those faultless collections of thews and 
sinews, without ideas, which so often pass muster as 
handsome men, both in the army and elsewhere. 
There was an expression of intellect on his finely 
formed features, of decision in the mouth, and reflec- 
tion in the mild blue eye, which told of hours, not 
w r asted over the wine-cup, or in the mischievous 
liaisons which so frequently disgrace garrison life, 
but devoted to study and improvement. 

Captain Ardmora had returned some time ago 
from a country station, Chambly, where the admira- 
ble discipline he had maintained among his men, 
and his officer-like conduct in quieting some dis- 
turbances which had arisen between the habitans 
and the British Canadians, had won him golden 
opinions from all parties, and obtained for him on 
his return to the capital a most flattering address 
from the inhabitants of the township. 

Gay young subs had pitied " Ardmore," for what 
they called his exile to Chambly ; but it is proba- 
ble that this officer did not consider in the light of 
a penance, a sojourn in a lovely Canadian village, 
where he had ample leisure to cultivate his favourite 



CAPTAIN ARDMORE, 7 

literary and artistic pursuits; and it would appear 
that he had left Chambly even with regret. Gossip 
had indeed remarked, that he appeared pre-occupied 
and distrait, and went much less into company on 
his return to Montreal. To account for this, as 
usual, all sorts of conjectures had been started. 
Some said that the captain had lost his heart to a 
rustic beauty, though others thought it very unlikely 
that any mere country damsel could have made the 
slightest impression on a man so fashionable and 
accomplished as Captain Ardmore. 

By degrees, then, as Captain Ardmore began to 
go again into company, these reports died away, any 
others took their place. It was now confidentld 
asserted at a number of tea-tables that a match was 
pending between him and Miss Vane, only daughter 
of a rich merchant, and one of the acknowledged 
beauties of Montreal. 

Miss Harriet Yane justly deserved her reputation 
of a belle, if not the belle of the capital. As far 
as personal beauty could go, she certainly was a 
splendid woman. Tall, about five feet seven inches, 
and with a figure sufficiently inclining at one-and- 
twenty to embonpoint, to give promise of a portly 
woman at forty ; her features were beautiful, with- 
out being monotonously regular; her nose was a 
decided aquiline, without being at all dispropor- 
tionate; her eyes large, black, and lustrous, with 
eye-brows arched and distinctly defined, and long 
lashes; her brow fair and lofty, and shaded with 



8 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

luxuriant ebon-hued tresses ; her complexion of that 
exquisite peachy tinge, so often seen in brunettes, 
in which there is no decided red, but a glow of 
health far removed from insipid pallor. The mouth 
was a remarkable and expressive feature ; certainly 
beautifully shaped, though not so small as to be 
in strict proportion with the other features; and 
although the upper lip was short and finely chizelled, 
it too often displayed a scornful curl, which gave 
an ungentle and unfeminine look to the face. 

Miss Vane, like many other young ladies in her 
sphere, turned all her matrimonial thoughts in the 
direction of the military ; partly, because her taste 
led her to prefer handsome young officers, and be- 
cause no other profession seemed to offer men of 
rank and wealth sufficient to be worthy of her hand. 
As a provincial belle, she well knew the power of 
her attractions on officers stationed in the colony, 
who, "at home" might even aspire to mate with the 
wealthy and titled daughters of the land. The 
hearts of young militaires, in spite of the prejudices 
of aristocratic education, and the reiterated advice of 
fond mammas, are not proof against the hospitable 
welcome of colonial society, and the bewitching 
influence of colonial beauty. Regiment succeeds 
regiment, and each laughs in turn at the matrimonial 
follies committed by its predecessors. Supercilious 
young ensigns and blase captains and majors make 
valiant determinations only to amuse themselves at 
the expense of the colonists, and only to flirt with 



CAPTAIN ARDMORE. \) 

the colonial belles ; but experience teaches them that 
the colonies are not quite so far behind the rest of 
the world as they had imagined, and the young 
ladies are so pretty, that after the usual quantity of 
balls and pie-nics, skating and sleighing parties, 
these stern resolves melt, and the departing regi- 
ment carries off its fair average of Benedicks. 

Nor would we infer from this any disparagement 
to the aforesaid quondam bachelors, on the score of 
infirmity of purpose ; for good colonial society has no 
reason whatever to blush for itself, and contains as 
large a proportion of match-making mammas, who 
angle assiduously for rich sons-in-law, and market- 
able daughters, who dress and dance themselves 
into the affections of eligible men, as the highest 
u ton " of England. 

It was beautiful to see with what unanimity 
mother and daughter devoted themselves to acquire 
all the necessary information respecting the affairs 
of a new regiment. While Mrs. Vane inquired 
diligently into the private circumstances of all 
the officers, from the colonel downwards ; and trea- 
sured up carefully in the chambers of her memory 
which were elder sons, with estates in prospect, 
Miss Vane was equally indefatigable in availing her- 
self of all the license granted to a young lady 
of wealth and fashion, to walk, talk, flirt, dance, and 
ride on horseback, w T ith a number of young officers, 
without injury to her reputation, and thus study the 
characters of her various admirers. Consequently, 



10 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

Miss Vane had been toasted at more than one mess- 
table as the boldest rider, the most indefatigable 
dancer, and, in short, the most beautiful, dashing, 
and fastest girl in Montreal. She had learnt to 
skate, and walk on snow-shoes, in addition to her 
other accomplishments; and compared herself to 
Die Vernon — with what truth we leave the reader to 
judge. 

Cornet Lord Royster was a complete contrast to 
Captain Ardmore, both in person and character. He 
possessed a short, squat, ungainly figure, with hair, 
eyebrows, and moustache of flaming red. As a 
child he had been spoiled and petted, allowed to 
learn just as little or as much as he chose at school ; 
had been expelled from college after one term; and 
the career of betting, horse-racing, gambling, and 
every species of dissipation, which he had run since, 
had amply sufficed to make him forget any learning 
which he might by chance have acquired. Reading 
was a penance. he never inflicted on himself, unless, 
perhaps, a new novel, in compliance with the recom- 
mendation of some namby-pamby Miss, who secretly 
adored " his lordship." In spite of the openly im- 
moral life he led, and the current reports respecting 
him (for he had no less than three illegitimate 
children by as many poor girls whom he had 
seduced), he was an officer and a lord, and time- 
serving society could not stoop to censure faults 
which would have blasted the character of any 
civilian. Consequently, his escapades were passed 



CAPTAIN ARDMORE. 11 

over as incidental to "blood" and "fashion" ; and 
mammas, who had marriageable daughters, quoted 
the old adage, that " reformed rakes make the best 
husbands," and thought that Lord Royster was cer- 
tainly a " little icild^ but that he would reform and 
settle down when he had a good wife. 

It was a common occurrence for this noble young 
officer to leave the mess-table in a state of intoxica- 
tion. He was to be seen frequently, with another 
congenial spirit, drinking in low taverns with red- 
shirted lumbermen, quarrelling and making up 
alternately with their companions. On the race- 
ground he would take the pipe out of the mouth of 
a black man, and smoke it ; and when reproached by 
a brother officer for his ungentlemanly conduct, 
allege, that being in mufti, he might do as he pleased. 
On one occasion, he was missing most unaccountably 
for a whole w^eek ; his turn of duty had come round, 
and surprise began to be converted into alarm. At 
length he was traced to a house of ill-fame, on the 
steps before the door of which his dog, a bull- 
terrier, was discovered sitting. On entering, Lord 
E oyster was found drinking, without his coat, in the 
society of two women en deshabille, and a bom- 
bardier ; embracing the latter most fraternally be 
tween the stanzas of a bacchanalian song. 



My acquaintance with Captain Ardmore, made in 
the manner related, was destined to ripen into inti- 
macy. The day after the adventure he called, and 



12 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

invited me to dine with him at the mess. We 
strolled together into the Champ de Mars, to listen to 
the music of one of the regimental bands. Amongst 
other belles, Miss Vane was there, in a pony phaeton, 
which she herself drove. Lord Royster had been 
talking to her, and sauntered away as we came up. 
She welcomed me with cordiality, and Captain 
Ardmore with more than cordiality. The manner of 
both appeared to me to confirm the report of their 
engagement. 

After some desultory conversation, Miss Vane 
said in a low voice, though perfectly audible, and 
with a significance plainly discernible,- — 

"Apropos, Captain Ardmore, of our narrow 
escape, I trust you took care to prevent any exag- 
gerated or false reports from reaching the country.'' 

In spite of Captain Ardmore's practised command 
of feature, I thought I could percive a perceptible 
shadow pass over his face, as he replied calmly, 
"Why, pray?" 

" Oh ! are you not afraid that your rustic beauty, 
this fair Rosamond, who resides at Chambly, may 
have heard some alarming statement. But, of 
course, you will take care to anticipate all newspaper 
accounts." 

Although Miss Vane spoke in a tone of badinage, 
she scanned Captain Ardmore's features with a keen 
though covert glance, as she continued, — 

" Oh, you men are sad creatures ! But who would 
have believed that the gay and fashionable Captain 



CAPTAIN ARDMORE. 13 

Ardmore could have been interested for ever so short 
a period in a rustic maiden " — the latter words were 
pronounced in a tone of ill-concealed bitterness — 
K really, I long to see this paragon. Lord Royster 
says!"— 

There was no mistaking the look of displeasure 
which now sat on Captain Ardmore's features. 

" I am at a loss to understand you, Miss Vane, 
Pray, what has Lord Royster been saying ? " 

"Dear me!" exclaimed Miss Vane, bursting into a 
fit of laughter ; " what a dangerous and excitable 
creature you are. Don't challenge poor Lord 
Royster, for he really said no more than what I knew 
already, that Captain Ardmore disregards us belles 
of the capital so far, as to prefer playing the gallant 
gay Lothario to rustic damsels in country quarters." 
Then, with female tact, changing the subject, she 
added, " How stupid that last piece was. I am so 
glad they have finished. Do, pray, Captain Ard- 
more, tell that dear delightful oddity, the German 
bandmaster, to play me my favourite from ' Norma ; ' 
or rather let him come to me himself, he makes me 
laugh so with his mixture of German and English.'" 

Accordingly, in obedience to a sign from Captain 
Ardmore, the bandmaster, Herr Schreitzner, a dap- 
per little German, approached, bowing at every step, 
and lifting his hat repeatedly about two feet perpen- 
dicularly off his head, with a tremendous flourish. 

M ' Norma,' ya — as, Capitaine Ardmore. Ya — as, 
ya — as, Miss Fane, that should haff bin down in der 



14 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

programme. That giff me great pleasure to obey 
the commands of erne lady, who haff ein so goot 
taste in moosic. Ya — as, ein ver goot taste." And 
with another flourish of the hat, and repeated bows, 
Herr Schreitzner returned to his post; and soon after 
the sweet and plaintive melody was heard. 

" Do not forget, Captain Ardmore," said Miss 
Vane, at the conclusion of the music; " and you, 

too, Mr. ," turning to me r u our little reunion, on 

Wednesday." 

I had already received a card, and bowed my 
readiness to accept the invitation. 

" Now, Harry, be quick," said Miss Vane, and the 
little boy-groom, who had till then stood at the 
horses' heads, jumped up into his place. i€ Au 
revoir, gentlemen ; " and waving an adieu with her 
crimson-gloved hand, and touching her ponies lightly 
with the whip, Miss Vane drove off; the equipage 
and the fair charioteer both followed by the admiring 
looks of the bystanders. 

As Captain Ardmore and myself passed through 
the barrack-square, we perceived a stranger, whose 
appearance bespoke him as belonging to that republic 
whose citizens are indiscriminately known to the 
British colonists as Yankees. Although there is no 
literal prohibition to the civilians, custom has made 
it the etiquette to confine the barrack-square exclu- 
sively to the military and their personal friends. 
Hence, I could not help being amazed on remarking 
this stray American, who with the utmost naivete, 



CAPTAIN ARDMORE. 15 

and all the coolness and insouciance of his country- 
men, was sauntering through the square, and ad- 
miring the fagade of the barracks, evidently without 
the remotest suspicion that he could be trespassing, 
and quite as much at his ease as if he had been 
standing under the tree of American Independence 
on Boston Common. Some of the junior officers, 
loitering about and waiting for the dinner-bugle to 
sound, had entered into conversation with the gen- 
tleman. Amongst these was Lord Royster, who 
very much to my surprise, though not at all to those 
who were better acquainted with his lordship, invited 
the former, though a perfect stranger, to dine at the 
mess ; an invitation which was at once accepted. 

Major Goliah Gallop (such was the portentous 
name of our American guest) was a type of a very 
large class of his countrymen, who always wear a 
full dress suit, whether because they think it the 
most fitting and agreeable travelling costume, or in 
order to be ready at any moment (as on the present 
occasion) to accept an unexpected invitation to 
dinner, or for some other reason or reasons which 
I will not undertake to determine. Major Gallop 
was a tall spare man, and might have been called 
handsome, but for the sallow^ness of his complexion, 
and the somewhat pointed character of his features. 
He had keen grey eyes, and wore a moustache and 
beard which completely covered his mouth and chin, 
and descended on his breast ; his collars were turned 
down so as not to interfere with this volume of hair : 



16 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

a long and open black satin vest showed to great 
perfection his ample-plaited shirt-bosom, garnished 
with a heavy gold chain and studs ; black trousers, 
made in the French fashion, and gathered in at the 
waist, and overlapping the boots of shining patent 
leather, the toes of which curled up an inch and a- 
half in front, as if emulating the extravagant fashion 
of the reign of Edward IV. ; a dress coat, with a 
very narrow collar, and a hat of the latest New 
York fashion, completed Major Gallop's dress or 
travelling costume, and marked him out to all British 
observers conspicuously as an American. 

A significant look passed round the circle as this 
guest of Lord Koyster was introduced, and took 
his seat at the mess-table ; but as the dinner pro- 
ceeded and the wine circulated, Major Gallop came 
out so very strong, told so many amusing anecdotes, 
and altogether appeared so very much at his ease, 
without any unbecoming familiarity, that looks of 
approbation began to sit on all faces, and even the 
seniors appeared to think that the stranger made up 
by his originality for any deficiency of polish. He 
was evidently one who had seen life in many phases, 
and could adapt himself with the utmost self-posses- 
sion to any society into which chance might cast 
him. He called the officers by their respective titles 
of colonel, major, captain, fe/tenant, &c, with the 
greatest gravity, and a naivete which, coupled with 
his Yankee drawl, was inexpressibly comic; and 
when, after the cloth had been drawn and the de- 



CAPTAIN ARDMORE. 17 

canters had made two or three rounds, Major Gallop 
was requested by Lord Royster to give a short 
sketch of his life and adventures, the proposal was 
so warmly seconded, that the American, after several 
preparatory €i wells,"* and guesses and calculations 
"that it ain't much to tell," &c, did at last begin ; 
and after being repeatedly interrupted by roars of 
laughter, occupied an hour at least in retailing the 
leading events of his life. To give it in his own 
words is impossible, and would moreover trespass too 
greatly on the reader's patience. I shall, therefore, 
insert here the following highly condensed 

Summary of the Life and Adventures of Major Goliah 
Gallop, one of the most remarkable men in the 
United States. 

Like a goodly number of Americans, Major 
Goliah Gallop has tried at everything, except, 
strictly speaking, the office of President, At nine 
years of age, he endeavoured to begin life on his 
own account by running away from home, and at 
twelve was kicked out by his father into the world 
to shift for himself. Being an American boy, this 
proved his first step to independence. He lost no 
time in associating himself in a commercial league 
with a peripatetic merchant, vulgice, a Yankee 

* A word which no English tongue could accent as lie 
did. 

c 



18 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

pedlar, who had realized a very good living by the 
sale of wooden hams, wooden nutmegs, and other 
pleasantly fictitious articles of commerce. 

But as the deluded purchasers, on having con- 
sumed the veritable hams or nutmegs, and arriving at 
the deceptive articles, were naturally indignant, and 
cherished projects of revenge against those who had 
outwitted them, our adventurers never sold twice to 
the same customers, and were continually obliged to 
seek out new commercial paths in back settlements 
more and more remote ; and, occasionally, to disarm 
suspicion, by adopting other professional avocations. 
So there is no great cause for wonder, if we find the 
junior partner opening a u whistling school," " on 
his own hook." This, though not exactly a success- 
ful speculation, was certainly not a failure, as far as 
Mr. Gallop was concerned. The scholars paid half 
the first quarter's salary in advance, and the teacher 
began his instruction by the command " begin to 
pucker," by which it is humbly suggested he meant 
" begin to form that muscular contraction of the lips 
indispensable to the act of whistling." This order 
was received with roars of laughter from the ma- 
jority of the pupils. In vain did some unsophisti- 
cated youth or maiden attempt to obey the injunction, 
"begin to pucker." It is a physical impossibility to 
whistle and laugh at once. Nothing disconcerted, 
Mr. Gallop dismissed his school for that evening, 
hoping that the next time they would be more docile. 
There was a gentle approach to a smile and a wink 



CAPTAIN ARDMORE. 19 

as he said this. On the following evening the pupils 
assembled, but no master appeared. Mr. Gallop 
had decamped with the profits to open school else- 
where. 

He then concluded to teach singing and drawing, 
in which he persevered for some time, very much to 
his own satisfaction, but whether to the advantage 
of his pupils is uncertain. After he had given 
lessons in drawing for some time, he felt a desire to 
learn the rudiments of the art himself, as he wished 
to turn portrait-painter, observing, there was a con- 
siderable demand in " country parts " for being 
" drawed out," or " took, 5 ' as the natives generally 
express the act of having a likeness painted. He 
accordingly came to " York," and took a few lessons 
in the art by hiring himself out as a decorator of 
omnibuses, or "stages," which in New York are 
perambulating picture galleries. On his return to 
the country, he was hailed as a genuine Apelles ; 
and by the commissions he received for portraits, 
joined to occasional sign-painting, and the profits of 
a small "store 1 ' for the sale of " notions" he managed 
to make a tolerable living, 

Growing tired of art at length, he found his way 
to the South, and turned overseer on a plantation. 
After superintending the whipping and branding of 
a good many of his fellow-creatures, he all at once 
turned abolitionist ; whether prompted by the 
fctings of conscience, or his natural love of change, is 
unknown. Having eluded the vigilance of some 

c 2 



20 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

anti-abolitionists, who were kindly taking measures 
to tar and feather him, he escaped to the North? 
carrying with him a negro, as a speculation, to move 
the sympathies of his hearers, in the capacity of an 
abolition lecturer. With this " darkey" as he em- 
phatically styled him, Mr. Gallop made an H ever- 
lastin' sight " of dollars, by carrying him about to 
indignation meetings, where the florid eloquence of 
our philosopher, and the broken English of the 
escaped slave excited much sympathy. 

The latter, however, beginning to think he might 
do better on his own account, decamped, having 
robbed the unsuspecting Gallop of all the ready 
money in his possession, and took a passage to 
England. When last heard of, he was electrifying a 
large audience at Exeter Hall (and moving the 
female portion to tears), by a recital of his sufferings 
as a slave, and an exhibition of the scars of some 
wounds (accidentally received as a child), as the 
veritable tokens of his master's barbarous usage. 

Mr. Goliah Gallop meanwhile joined a party of 
trappers and hunters, who were proceeding to the Far 
West ; crossed the Rocky Mountains, and after 
enduring innumerable hardships, and many narrow 
escapes in skirmishes with Indians, reached the 
gold regions of California, where, after he had 
amassed a considerable quantity of the precious metal, 
he was robbed of everything^ and left naked and 
nearly dead, with several stabs of a bowie-knife in 
different parts of his body, inflicted by a fellow- 
miner with whom he had quarrelled. 



CAPTAIN ARDMORE. 21 

Disgusted with his ill luck and the country, as 
soon as his recovery permitted, he worked his passage 
before the mast in a vessel bound to Rio Janeiro, 
where he landed just in the thick of the Mexican 
war. As he was fond of fighting, and not particular 
on which side he enlisted, so long as he got pay and 
plunder, he joined the Mexican army, was taken 
prisoner by the Americans, volunteered into their 
ranks to avoid being shot for carrying arms against 
his countrymen, led a forlorn hope, behaved with 
great gallantry, and returned home with the honour- 
able rank of major. 

On the disbanding of the army engaged in the 
Mexican war, Major Gallop was by no means 
inclined to turn his sword into a ploughshare. He 
had found war a dollar-earning trade ; he had got his 
hand in at fighting, and was disposed to do a little 
business on his own account rather than remain idle. 
Accordingly Major Gallop reaped fresh laurels as a 
Canadian sympathizer, and a Cuban invader, besides 
numerous little filibustering expeditions and Indian 
massacres of too trifling a nature to be particularly 
noticed 

My limits only permit me to indicate the eareer of 
this enterprizing and enlightened citizen. Suffice it 
to say, that after many vicissitudes of fortune, he is 
now at thirty-five an editor of a newspaper, a member 
of the state legislature, and has excellent prospects 
of being returned a member of Congress, and of 
course of eventually becoming President of the 



22 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

United States, In the course of his varied life, 
Major Goliah Gallop has sailed upon the waters of 
the Ottawa, the St. Lawrence, the Hudson, Missis- 
sippi, Missouri, the Amazon, the Ohio, and a number 
of lesser rivers, as well as on the great lakes and on 
the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans. He has fought a 
great many duels, three with revolvers, two with 
rifles, and one with bowie-knives. He has narrowly 
escaped being gouged and scalped more than once, 
has ridden for his life from a burning prairie, laid 
himself down in a stream to avoid destruction from 
fire in the woods, precipitated himself from the 
second-floor window of a house in flames, been in 
several railway collisions, once blown up in a steam- 
boat, lived six months alone in the primeval forest, 
visited the interior of a mine, been up in a balloon, 
and down in a diving-bell. 

In spite of his active life, Major Goliah Gallop 
has not slighted the tender affections and the personal 
relations. He has married twice, been jilted five 
times, and has jilted himself, and made love to an 
indefinite number of the fair sex, besides having had 
three wives at once, when living after the patriarchal 
manner aqjpng the Mormons. In his literary capacity 
as editor of a paper, he has been led imperceptibly 
into other branches of the belles lettres, and has 
written a tragedy, a no^ T el, and a book of sermons, 
besides innumerable political tracts. 

Major Goliah Gallop is most desirous of visiting 
Europe, having ; as he says, seen all on this side of 



CAPTAIN ARDMORE. 23 

the Atlantic, he wants to see the Harnal wonders of 
the old world that they brag so much of, such as 
Home, Mount Vesusius, and the Tower of London. 
He reckons he'll see nothing to "whip" the Falls. 
He has sketched out for himself a programme of his 
visit to the Old World, by which he calculates to leave 
Xew York, arrive in Liverpool, see London, 
England, and Europe generally, and ' do ' the sights of 
Asia and Africa, peep at the Pyramids, have a look 
for the sources of the Nile, enter a harem and a 
mosque, squint at the Chinese wall, and, to save the 
trouble of retracing his steps, guesses (: it'll be about 
the quickest way to jump clean over Behring's 
Straits/' and so return to Xew York within a couple 
of years, having made the tour of the globe. 



I had not been long at Mrs. Vane's before Captain 
Ardmore was announced. A buzz ran round the room 
as he entered. He was dressed in plain clothes, in 
an elegant evening costume, and looked the beau 
ideal of a gentleman, certainly the handsomest and 
most distingue man in the room. 

Miss Vane was talking, flirting I was almost going 
to say, with a Mr. Potter, a confidential clerk in her 
father's employ. Report said that this young man 
was most desperately enamoured of Miss Vane, and 
that he had even received her father's sanction to pay 
his addresses to her, but the daughter kept him off 
and on like a plaything, to gratify her own caprice. 
When she happened to be without her military 



34 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

admirers, poor Potter was taken into favour, but 
discarded without the slightest ceremony when 
brighter stars (i.e., more eligible men) appeared in 
the horizon. Mr. Potter occupied near Miss Vane 
the convenient position of "shoeing horn" as it is 
defined in the " Spectator/' — never intended to be 
accepted himself, but merely to urge tardy admirers 
forward. Such, however, was the infatuation of the 
unsophisticated young man, that he fluttered round 
the dangerous blaze, ever ready at the call of the 
perfidious beauty. 

The instant Captain Ardmore was announced, Miss 
Vane, who had been delighting poor Mr. Potter with 
a show of graeiousness, left him without ceremony. 
" Adieu, you bewitching creature ! " she said to the 
latter, with an irony perceptible to all but her 
victim, too straightforward himself to suspect her 
of playing with his feelings. 

" How could you come so late ? " she said, as she 
gave her hand to Captain Ardmore ; " I have sulked 
the whole evening." 

" Then you have not been singing ? " replied the 
captain : " I have lost none of my favourites." 

" How can you ask ? " said she, with a look of 

sweet reproach ; is you know I cannot sing without 

4 some strong inducement; without a listener who 

really cares to hear me, and who can appreciate 

music. Who was there to sing for till you came ? " 

Who could be indifferent to such flattering words 
spoken with an air of sincerity by so beautiful a 



CAPTAIN ARDMORE. 25 

woman? I saw that Captain Ardmore was not 
insensible to the compliment. 

He led her to the piano. I expected, of course, 
that so fashionable a young lady would not con- 
descend to sing any but a foreign language. I was 
then surprised and delighted when, in a full rich 
voice and with great feeling. Miss Vane sang a song 
which partook of the nature of a sacred harmony, 
" He doeth all things well." I heard it for the first 
time, and it impressed me deeply. I watched 
Captain Ardmore's lip quiver and eye glisten as the 
melody proceeded : — 

" My cnp of happiness was full, 
My joy could none dispel ; 
And I blessed the glorious Giver, 
Who doeth all things well." 

But the little child which made this hope and joy is 
taken away, and after a bitter wrestling with 
despair, her faith triumphs even in that hour of 
bereavement, — 

" God gave ; He took ; He will restore r 
He doeth all things well." 

No fault could have been found with Miss Vane 
while singing. It would have been difficult to believe 
as she poured out the melody (giving to every note 
force and feeling) that she did not participate in the 
emotions which she evoked. But when she had 
finished, she looked up at Captain Ardmore, and the 



26 GPvINS AND WRINKLES. 

glance appeared to me to denote a desire rather to 
read the impression which she had made on him, 
than an appreciation of the pure and holy sentiments 
to which she had just given utterance. His heart was 
evidently too full to permit him to pour out the idle 
words of compliment. As for Mr, Potter, he sate 
looking at Miss Vane as if she had been a superior 
being, while that young lady, as if anxious to dispel 
any melancholy which her song may have conjured 
up, dashed into a lively air with variations from u II 
Barbiere di Seviglia." 

When she had finished she turned to Captain 
Ardmore, and requested him to sing. He assented 
at once, without any affectation of making excuses 
to enhance the value of his performance, and taking 
up a guitar, accompanied himself while he sung, in 
a rich and manly voice, that exquisitely beautiful 
song beginning — 

" Home, Kome, thou art no more 
As thou hast been." 

I can recall him vividly in fancy as he stood on that 
evening, charming all with the grace of his person, 
and the skill with which he sung. Miss Vane was 
not the only young lady present whose admiration 
could be read very plainly in her looks. 

In the course of the evening, Lord Royster was 
announced. To-night, then, it appeared music had more 
charms for him than the bottle, not that he appeared 
to have abandoned it too hastily either. As he 



CAPTAIN ARDMORE. 27 

advanced to pay his respects to the lady of the house, 
his heightened colour and a certain swagger in his 
gait showed that though perfectly competent to 
behave himself, he was certainly in the first stage of 
that mysterious condition which in the aristocracy is 
expressed by " elevated ! " in the middling or respect- 
able classes, " intoxicated ! ! " and in the mobocracy by 
the stern uncompromising word " drtink ! ! ! " He 
had evidently imbibed enough to be mischievous, or 
inclined for a lark, certainly to remove all symptoms 
of the bashfulness w r hich generally oppressed him in 
his perfectly sober moments in respectable female 
society. 

As he found himself standing near me, he addressed 
me without any introduction, probably on the strength 
of having seen me at the mess-table, and his con- 
versation, if not edifying, was certainly amusing. 
He spoke with a drawl, and in that peculiar slang 
which is characteristic of a large portion of the 
fashionable English (as much as exasperating their 
h's, confounding v's and w's is of the lower orders) ; 
for it is quite a mistake to fancy that incorrect 
speaking is confined to any one grade. This method 
of speaking consists in dwelling in an absurd manner 
on the last syllables of words, in cancelling the letter 
r altogether, or as far as possible, in dropping 
the final y, as in singin', bringin', and many other 
little peculiarities respecting which the sagacious 
reader will, doubtless, be independent of my infor- 
mation. 



28 GTtlNS AND WRINKLES* 

" Aw. So you ah hand and glo-ove with Awdmoah 
— aw — saved him from takin' a flyin' leap ova' the 
bwidge — a dooced dangewous place— -aw — and a 
deyv'lish bold thing of you to do. I knew a chap 
once who tried the very same thing — aw — and got 
an awm and leg bwoke for his pains. Well — now — 
aw — aw — what do you think of Awdmoah ? " 

" My acquaintance with Captain Ardmore has not 
been very long. From what I have seen and heard 
of him already, I think every one must like him." 

" Aw — inde-e-d. Well now — do you know — I 
think Awdmoah a dooced queeah fellah." 

" How so, pray ? " 

" Aw— aw— because he's so different from other 
fellahs. He's always pokin' about doin' somethin' 
or otha' — he is, upon my honah — never idle, you 
know — that sort of fellah — eccentric — aw — got his 
rooms chawk full of books and paintin', and papahs — 
I mean MSS., and otha' wubbish of that sort— it's a 
fa-a-ct, I assuah you, he neva' has a moment to 
spaah — always on some crochet or otha. Why — 
aw — aw — do you know what Awdmoah wawks at 
when he's not paintin', or readin', or writin 5 , and when 
the w T eatha's not fine enough to go out ? Haw ! 
haw ! you'll neva' guess — a turnin la-athe. Haw ! 
haw ! fa-act, upon my honah." 

Lord Royster's description of " a queeah fellah " 
amused me. 

" By all accounts then, Captain Ardmore's time 
never hangs heavy on his hands ? " 



CAPTAIN ARDM0RE. 29 

rr Aw — cu~urse it, no — that's what I wonda' at. I 
say to him sometimes, Awdmoah, how the dooee can 
you who have aw — aw — seen life in England and 
on the Continent, manage to exist in this dismal hole 
of a provincial town ? Aw — I think the colonies 
only fit to weah out old clothes in myself. There's 
only one thing in their favah that I know — aw — the 
brandy's so dooced good and cheap. Haw ! haw ! 
But, dash me if I know how to kill time of an 
evenin'. There's nothin' goin' on,— no theatah — no 
opewa." 

" Are there not plenty of private parties ? " 
"Aw — aw — I'm boahed (bored) to death with 
private pa-aties for aw— aw— tho' the ga'als are 
pwetty they haven't u tin " enough to make it wawth 
a fellah's while to — aw — pay attention to them 
seriously— aw — -aw-— wa-all — I suppose it's no use 
frettin'. Montreal's a dooced deal betta' than that 
howid Chambly — aw — I'd have cut my throat if I'd 
stayed there a week ionga'." 

" Ah, what a loss to the world, my lord," said a 
waggish brother-officer who had overheard the last 
remark. " They would have mourned for you at 
Tattersall's, and in the synagogues." 

6 < Aw, Erskine," said his lordship, taking the new 
speaker by the arm, " I want to speak to you. 
This is deyv'lish slow, ain't it ? Can't we contrive 
to — " Here Lord Royster's voice dropped into a 
confidential whisper so as to be inaudible. 

That he was hatching some mischief I felt cer- 



30 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

tain, and my anticipations were not disappointed, as 
the following events showed. In consequence of 
Lord Royster having expressed his conviction that 
a the thing" was slow, and his wish to enliven it a 
bit, the result of their consultation was that the 
officer in question took the earliest opportunity of 
informing Mrs. Vane that his lordship sung a very 
good song. The hostess, who was in a state of the 
highest delight at the opportunity of entertaining 
such fashionable company, and was only too desirous 
showing every attention to her titled guest, lost no 
time in requesting Lord Royster to sing. 

Lord Royster declined, but so feebly, that the 
lady returned again and again to the task of persua- 
sion, and at intervals throughout the evening might 
be heard entreating, — 

" Oh do, pray, now, Lord Royster — if your lord • 
ship would only try — I'm sure your lordship isn't 
hoarse ! " and — " da capo" 

Lord Royster, however, was deaf to the voice of 
the charmer, and persisted in declining until supper- 
time drew near. He then watched his opportunity, 
and hit it so cleverly, that he volunteered a song at 
the very moment that supper was on the point of 
being announced, when a servant had thrown the 
folding-doors wide open, and Mrs. Vane was on the 
point of marshalling the guests to the banquet. 
Common politeness required the lady of the house 
to bow and smile, and express herself highly de- 
lighted. The guests also grinned as best they could, 



CAPTAIN ARDMORE. 31 

and resigned themselves to the infliction, murmur- 
ing " that they would be so happy to," &c, while, 
as the hot supper sent up its savoury steams from 
the adjoining room, there can be no doubt that one 
devout wish animated every bosom — that Lord 
Royster had been conveyed by some mysterious 
magic agency to Hong Kong, before he had chosen 
that critical moment for favouring the company, 
Xevertheless Mi's. Yane, and doubtless many others, 
consoled themselves with the idea that it would 
soon be over, and that the delav could not be of 
material consequence. Consequently, while a few 
resumed their seats, the majority of the company 
remained standing, the ladies hano-ino; on the arms 
of their respective gentlemen, just as they had been 
when on the point of entering the supper-room ; and 
this was the state of affairs when Lord Royster, 
leaning with nonchalance against the door-way of the 
forbidden apartment, began his song. 

One, two, three, four, five, up to ten verses ! and 
every listener decided that this would surely be the 
last : but no. Imagine the horror and consterna- 
tion, the covert fury of the hostess and her guests, 
when ten, twenty, thirty verses were poured forth, 
and still no sign of termination. Just as the hope 
arose in the mind of some hungry individual, " this 
verse must be the last" Lord Royster, having inflated 
his lungs with air, would rush again into the burthen 
of his melody, con strepitu, con amore, and with 
the most provoking gravity, as if he had not the 



32 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

slightest suspicion of the precious practical joke he 
was playing. 

What the song was about, no one knew, no one 
cared. The most grateful odours found their way 
from the supper -tables, titillating the olfactories 
and whetting the appetites of the expectant guests, 
w^ho were as completely paralyzed by the rules of 
etiquette as if some ancient mariner had seized 
each individually, and " held him w T ith his glittering 
eye." The supper was getting cold, and still the 
interminable song went on. At length, when fifty 
verses had been achieved, either because his lungs 
or his memory were tired, or that he was getting 
hungry himself, or that he thought he had carried 
the joke far enough, and that the growing symptoms 
of impatience warned him that his audience might 
summarily break the charm exerted by his impu- 
dence over their good breeding, or because the song 
was really at an end, Lord Royster took pity upon 
the famishing guests, and permitted them finally to 
enter the supper-room. 

Here the master of the house was pointed out to 
me — host, I cannot call him. He was one of those 
meagre, insignificant, hen-pecked looking men, who, 
however, full of energy in business, leave their 
souls behind them in the counting-house, bank, or 
wherever may be the scene of their labours, and 
become in their own homes perfect nonentities. I 
should have fancied that his wife never regarded him 
with more contempt than at the present moment ; 



CAPTAIN ARDMORE. 33 

for, at a time when most men become of some con- 
sequence in their own houses, Mr. Vane did nothing 
— absolutely nothing. He neither took the head 
nor the foot of the table, and you felt tempted to 
patronise him, and endeavour to make the poor man 
feel more at home. Lord Royster, who was now in 
his element, did so, and asked the host to take wine 
with him, an act of attention for which Mr. Vane 
seemed very grateful. 

During the course of supper some alarm was 
created by one of the tables slightly giving way ; 
happily, it was secured before any damage could 
be done. Those in the immediate neighbourhood 
assisted ; every one appeared more or less interested 
in the occurrence, with one exception — the master 
of the house. He merely looked on, without making 
the slightest effort to be useful, or seeming to think 
he had any concern in the matter. He only meekly 
murmured as he caught his wife's eye, " Mrs. Vane, 
my dear, the table seems to be coming down." Mrs. 
Vane replied with a look which seemed to say : 
u Only wait till the company have gone, that's all.'' 

Under the influence of the punch Lord Royster 
grew exceedingly merry, and began talking quite 
confidentially to every one in his immediate neigh- 
bourhood. He proposed to me, on the breaking up 
of the party, to accompany him on a lark or spree ; 
or, as he termed it, "to see what's up." I did not, 
however, accept his invitation to make a night of it, 
but preferred walking home with Captain Ardmore. 



34 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

It was a glorious winter evening, freezing hard, and 
the cold moon shone with a brightness never seen 
in England, lighting up the facade of the great 
French cathedral of Notre Dame, whose two gigantic 
towers loomed above us as we passed through the 
Place d'armes. 

Suddenly we heard a yelling and shrieking behind 
us, — sounds which we soon found proceeded from 
Lord Royster, and a parcel of kindred spirits, who 
were piled indiscriminately on a cariole (a kind of 
low sleigh which does duty for a public cab), and 
passed us at full speed, lashing the poor horse un- 
mercifully, and wakening the echoes of the solemn 
cathedral with their shouts and senseless laughter. 

Two days afterwards I read the following an- 
nouncement in a Montreal paper: — "We draw 
attention to the reward of £50 offered for the detec- 
tion of certain malicious and evil-disposed persons, 
who, on the night of the 20th December, removed 
all the fir-trees which marked out the road across 
the St. Lawrence to Longseul, thereby endangering 
the lives of her Majesty's liege subjects, by render- 
ing them liable to mistake the beaten track and 
winder into air-holes. We can only say, if there be 
any truth in the rumour which has reached us that 
a certain lordling. holding a commission in the army, 
and remarkable for sundry escapades and breaches 
of the public peace, has had a finger in this dis- 
graceful piece of rascality ; and if it be owing to 
this that Cornet Lord E — st — r,* of the regi- 



CAPTAIN ARDMORE. 35 

ment of dragoons has (as we have heard) decamped 
across the lines, his lordship need not be in any 
hurry to return, as he will find that, if convicted 
of this grave offence, neither his commission nor 
his rank will screen him from the punishment he 
merits." 

Xevertkeless, in spite of this warning, Cornet 
Lord Royster did return after some time, and the 
matter blew over; either because it was hushed up 
through his influence, or that there was no evidence 
to prove him guilty. 



My intimacy with Captain Ardmore ripened 
almost daily. The more I saw of him the more I 
liked him, and the more reason I found to admire 
him for his union of the most refined accomplish- 
ments and intellectual pursuits with the graceful 
ease and fashionable manners of a man of the world. 
A clue to his character was afforded on first enter- 
ing his apartments. Instead of the meershaums, 
whips, portraits of ballet-dancers, and race-horses, 
and the •almost effeminate furniture of the toilette, 
which profusely decorated Lord Royster's rooms, 
the walls were covered with beautiful studies of 
English and American scenery, and drawings of 
heads and animals executed by himself; a large 
book-case displayed the best English and French 
authors, while his dressing-room contained all that 
was necessary, without any of the knick-knackeries 
or gim-cracks of a peiit-maitre. 

d 2 



36 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

One evening, by the invitation of my friend (for 
by this name I was now entitled to call Captain 
Ardmore), I found myself at a large ball given by 
the officers of his regiment. Amongst the guests I 
noticed one couple w T ho seemed quite out of their 
element, viz., a dapper little cockney shop or store- 
keeper, named Perkins, whom I knew very well by 
sight; and his wife, a portly, vulgar woman, with 
an extremely red face. I saw them enter, and no 
attempt was made to introduce them to Mrs. Floyd, 
the colonel's lady, but both were allowed to sit 
down near the door, blushing and looking extremely 
sheepish. As I suspected at the time, and after- 
wards learnt, Lord Royster had a hand in this also. 
He owed a large bill to Mr. Perkins, and was not 
proof against the request made by the husband at 
his wife's instigation, to invite them to the officers' 
ball. 

I do not know whether Mrs. Floyd saw them 
arrive, but I perceived that during the evening she 
became cognisant of their presence, as I saw her 
staring with artless and undisguised wonder at Mrs. 
Perkins's style of dancing. The latter lady did not 
walk through quadrilles. Had she done so, she 
might not have attracted the notice of the colonel's 
lady, even though dancing in the next quadrille ; 
but, alas ! Mrs. Perkins's style of dancing was fear- 
fully demonstrative. She bounced hither and thither, 
and hopped up and down, like a ship in distress. 
The expression on Mrs. Floyd's face said most 



CAPTAIN ARDMORE. 37 

plainly : " How did this woman gain admittance 
here ?" 

Whether from a wish to allay the feelings of 
awkwardness she had experienced in the early part 
of the evening, or because she was addicted to the 
use of stimulants, Mrs. Perkins had acquired a very 
evident supply of what is termed " Dutch courage ; " 
and now, instead of shunning notice, she seemed to 
court it, and made several attempts to attract Mrs. 
Floyd's attention, by bowing and speaking to her, 
all which overtures the Colonel's lady would not see. 

Dreading some contretemps, the ever-considerate 
Captain Ardmore took the opportunity of expostu- 
lating with Lord Eoyster, and urging upon him the 
propriety of using his influence with Mr. Perkins to 
remove his wife before she had committed herself 
further ; to which Lord Royster made no other reply 
than — fi Aw — cu — urse it, let her disgrace herself; 
she would come — aw — besides, if I were to insult 
Perkins by hintin' that his wife was drunk, I'd have 
him dunnin' me for money to-morrow — aw ! " 

Captain Ardmore appeared in excellent spirits this 
evening. He danced almost continually with Miss 
Vane. I had never seen a finer-looking couple than 
they appeared in the polka, which they performed to 
perfection. I had just concluded a quadrille with 
a young lady from the country, who had been boring 
me to death by her attempts to give our conver- 
sation a literary turn, and by the unmeaning plati- 
tudes which she uttered on Byron, Scott, and Long- 



3§ GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

fellow; I was very glad, therefore, when I felt 
myself at liberty to wander away into a dimly- 
lighted ante-room. I was listlessly stooping down 
to examine a screen covered over with engravings, 
and was completely hidden from view, when two 
people entered the room, whom I knew instantly 
from their voices to be Captain Ardmore and Miss 
Vane. They were speaking confidentially and in 
low tones, but every word was distinctly audible; 
and I heard enough to inform me that Captain 
Ardmore was the accepted lover of Miss Vane. 
I was relieved from my awkward and unintentional 
role of eavesdropper, by Miss Vane remarking as 
the music struck up, that she would not lose the 
next dance for the world ; and the lovers hurried 
to the ball-room, where I in a short time followed. 

It appeared as if Captain Ardmore would wil- 
lingly have engrossed Miss Vane the whole evening* 
A polka had come to an end, and he was soliciting 
her hand for the ensuing dance ; but she seemed to 
expostulate with him on the impropriety of paying 
her such marked attention. It was probably owing 
to this that Captain Ardmore danced the next 
quadrille with another lady, while Miss Vane 
accepted as a partner, Mr. Potter, already intro- 
duced to the reader as being an humble admirer of 
the haughty beauty. 

Mr. Potter was certainly not calculated to make 
much impression on a young lady surrounded by 
regimental beaux. Though a capital accountant, he 



CAPTAIN ARDM0RE. 39 

was totally devoid of those superficial graces, and 
that flow of small talk which young ladies love ; and 
with every wish to make himself agreeable to Miss 
Vane, he either bored her to death, or served her 
when in a quizzing humour as a butt for her 
ridicule. I thought that under the present circum- 
stances, when she had just plighted her troth to 
another man, Miss Vane might have had some 
compassion on the hopeless case of her admirer, 
and might have spared him. I was, however, 
mistaken. 

During the quadrille, Mr. Potter hummed and 
hawed, and fumbled with his gloves, while Miss 
Vane appeared to be secretly enjoying his confusion. 

"Did you speak, Mr. Potter?" said the young 
lady at length. 

" I — I — no — that is — yes — I mean — not exactly," 
stammered Potter, growing very red in the face. 

" The rooms are hot," continued Miss Vane, deter- 
mined to draw him out. 

"Well, yes — though — I must say — it didn't — 
though, of course, if you think so — yes, certainly." 

" Have you no news for me of any kind, Mr. 
Potter?" 

" Me, Miss ; none, Miss — that is, I've not heard 
anything likely — to interest a young lady — of — of — 
I mean — a young lady of fashion like Miss Vane." 

" You are complimentary, Mr. Potter," and Miss 
Vane deliberately made a low bow to her partner 
which considerably increased his confusion. 



£0 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

" No— really — Miss Vane— I didn't mean—" Mr. 
Potter hesitated and stammered. 

" What, no news of any kind — nothing connected 
with trade.*' 

" Nothing really," began Mr. Potter, and then he 
stopped abruptly, and a ray of something like hope 
illumined the vacant waste of his countenance. 
"By the last accounts, flour is firm, cotton has 
declined, and sugar is up again." 

Miss Vane burst into an unrestrained peal of 
laughter, without the slightest remorse or pity for 
her victim. When she had somewhat recovered from 
her paroxysm of mirth, she said, 

" What gratifying intelligence you mercantile men 
have to bestow ; so sugar is really up. How long 
would it have been before Lord Royster could have 
told me that ? " and she began laughing again. 

Poor Mr. Potter was dreadfully abashed. He did 
not utter another word while the quadrille lasted ; 
but at its termination, after he had led the young 
lady to a seat, he did muster up courage to ask when 
he might have the honour and happiness of waiting 
upon her at her own residence. Miss Vane turned 
upon him her eyes flashing with mischievous mirth, 
and repeated his question slowly so as to raise some 
hopes in the mind of the unfortunate Potter that 
she was about to return a satisfactory answer to his 
request. 

" When may you have the honour and happiness 
of waiting upon me. Why — really, Mr. Potter — I 



CAPTAIN ARDM0RE. 41 

think — all things considered — you may call — when 
sugar's down" 

Mr. Potter retreated in speechless confusion. 

Just at this moment the attention of the company 
was drawn to an explosion which had been for some 
time pending. From the glimpses I had occasionally 
caught of Lord Royster, he seemed to me to be 
hatching some mischief or other. I had seen him 
standing apparently engaged in conversation with 
the fat quartermaster, who was describing, with a 
great deal of pardonable egotism, the chalking of 
the floor of the ball-room, in which he had been 
chiefly instrumental. But Lord Royster was evi- 
dently pre-occupied with his own thoughts, and quite 
inattentive to the quartermaster ; his eyes roved 
about the room, seeking, as it soon appeared, for 
some fit object on whom to play a practical joke. 

At a late hour in the evening he went up to Mrs. 
Perkins and asked her to waltz. Mrs. Perkins, who 
had been anticipating this honour, would certainly 
have preferred a quadrille; but rather than not 
dance at all with a lord, she gave her consent. Lord 
Royster had then retired, and returned abruptly to 
claim her hand just as the waltz was commencing. 
They began, but had hardly taken a few turns before 
Mrs. Perkins was obliged to stop quite out of breath. 
She persevered, however, until most of the waltzers 
had stopped to rest, and she and Lord Royster found 
themselves almost alone on the floor. During another 
pause, Mrs. Perkins was too busy panting and gasp- 



42 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

ing, and trying to inflate her exhausted lungs, to be 
very well conscious of what was going on around 
her. Gradually, however, in spite of her flustered 
condition, it dawned upon her, that she and her 
partner were attracting an unusual share of obser- 
vation. 

People had stopped dancing, and were gazing 
most decidedly and uncompromisingly upon Lord 
Royster and Mrs. Perkins ; some were smiling, and 
stifled laughs began to be heard. All this seemed 
very unaccountable to the good lady. She scanned 
her own dress — nothing was out of order. At last 
her eye fell upon her partner with more detailed 
observation than she previously had time to bestow, 
and then the mystery was explained. During his 
absence, Lord Royster had changed his dress, and 
made a complete "guy" of himself. The back of his 
dress-coat had a large patch in it, he wore a vest 
made of a piece of old stair-carpet, and an immense 
hollyhock, by way of bouquet, was fastened in his 
button -hole. All this Mrs. Perkins noted in a 
moment. She had been made the victim of a prac- 
tical joke, She overwhelmed Lord Royster with a 
torrent of reproaches. But this was by no means a 
sufficient vent for her rage. She looked round the 
whole circle of the company (most of whom found 
it impossible any longer to conceal their merriment), 
as if seeking for some one individual on whom to 
pour out her fury. Her eye lighted upon the 
colonel's lady, against whom her feelings of bitter- 



CAPTAIX ARDMORE. 43 

ness had received the climax, upon the latter declin- 
ing to touch her hand in the last quadrille. 

"Ho, indeed, mum; and so we're too proud to 
touch the 'ands of our fellow-creatures, and yet you 
call yourself a Christian, I supposes. I wonders 
where you expects to go to, mum. A colonel's lady 
— really, I thought you wos a duchess at the very 
least ! I've been a-watching you with your stuck- 
up airs the w'ole h'evening; and it seems I'm not 
good enough to be introduced to you, nor to touch 
the tip of your little finger. And so I've been 
asked here to be insulted and made game of — eh ? 
but — don't think I want to interude myself on your 
acquaintance, mum, not I, indeed ; though I 'ad 
once the 'onour of bein' at a ball, at the Mansion 
'Ouse, in London. I know I ain't fit company for 
a colonel's lady. Oh, no ! indeed. I shan't defile the 
h'air longer with my presence. Perkins" (in a very 
shrill voice), " do you call yourself a man, and are you 
agoin' to stand there and let me be h'insulted any 
longer." Here, Mrs. Perkins threw herself on her 
husband, with tears of rage, and tore the poor man's 
hair, and buffeted him about the face, perhaps 
unconsciously, in her paroxysm, and from the force 
of habit. 

Mrs. Floyd, who was a tall, handsome, and highly- 
bred woman, presented a very striking contrast to 
Mrs. Perkins while the latter uttered this tirade. 
Her cheek had flushed as she listened to such un- 
usual language, but her features never relaxed from 



44 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

their calm and haughty look, as if she felt how 
utterly beneath her dignity it would be to permit 
Mrs. Perkins to ruffle her temper. She only said, in 
a tone of bitter irony, 

"Lord Royster, had you not better look after 
your friend, she seems discomposed." 

But the old Colonel, who, however good-natured, 
was somewhat hasty, waxed indignant at this 
escapade of Lord Royster, which had resulted in a 
personal insult to his w T ife. 

" Lord Royster," he said, " what is the meaning 
of this disgraceful masquerade ? Your conduct is 
unbecoming an officer and a gentleman. Consider 
yourself under an arrest !" 



45 
CONCLUSION OF 

CAPTAIN ARDMORE; 

OR, 

THE EOSE OF CHAMBLY. 



" Love is not love, 
Which alters when it alteration finds, 
Or bends with the remover to remove." 

Shakspere. 

" The bayonets earthward are turning, 

And the drum's muffled breath rolls around, 
But he hears not the voice of their mourning. 
Nor awakes to the bugle's sound." 

The Officer's Funeral. 

Two years had elapsed since I first made Captain 
Ardmore's acquaintance. It was summer, and his 
marriage with Miss Yane was appointed to take 
place in two weeks. But in that short period much 
may happen. In the interval Captain Ardmore was 
stricken down by fever, which proved to be typhus. 
I hardly ever left his bed-side. Often and often he 
wandered in his mind, and at such times he called 
on a female name which was not that of Miss Yane. 
This name so often on his lips was Patience Gray. 
With it was joined the word Chambly ; and in his 
delirium he confounded Harriet Yane aud Patience 
Gray together, and spoke of his approaching mar- 



46 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

riage sometimes with one, sometimes with the other, 
I never should have sought to discover the secret 
partially revealed by these disconnected words, had 
he not, of his own accord, made me his confidant. 

One morning, when his consciousness had quite 
returned, he directed me to a secret drawer, and 
requested me to give him a small locket which it 
contained. It enclosed the miniature likeness of 
a beautiful young woman. He wept over it and 
kissed it with emotion, and then asked me frankly 
if I had not gathered enough from the words let fall 
in his delirium to guess the name of the original, 
and obtain some idea of the real state of affairs. 
I confessed that I had. " Then/' said he, pressing 
my hand feebly, " I will tell you all, that when I 
am gone you may tell her I made her the poor 
amends of dying repentant." I did not believe my 
friend was dying, and I told him so, but he persisted 
in thinking otherwise. Having once begun to un- 
burthen his heart of the secret, he seemed to find a 
relief in returning often and often to the subject. 
His confession was in substance as follows: — 

I have already told the reader that Captain Ard- 
more had been stationed in command of a troop at 
Chambly, a pretty village on the river Richelieu^ 
about fifteen miles from Montreal. Patience Gray, 
though only a farmer's daughter, was beautiful and 
intelligent, and by no means uneducated. Her 
father was one of those steady persevering emigrants 
w r ho form the strength and promise of a new country. 



CONCLUSION OF CAPTAIN ARDMORE. 47 

He had quitted Scotland poor and friendless, and 
through his own efforts, had become an independent 
thriving land-owner. 

Patience was the favourite of her father, and of 
the whole village as well, for her meek and gentle 
nature did not rouse the feelings of envy so com- 
mon among rustic beauties. She was called, par 
excellence, " the Rose of Chambly." Her father had 
given her the best education his means and situation 
afforded, and the cheapness of American literature 
had enabled him to amass a tolerable library, which 
proved to Patience an endless source of profit and 
amusement. The leisure granted by the seclusion 
of her village life, and the absence of those petty 
trivial gaieties, which occupy so much of the time of 
young ladies in cities, gave her ample opportunities 
for reading, as well as other rational and refined 
pursuits. 

Patience w T as an enthusiastic lover of nature, as 
most well brought-up young people are, and the 
efforts she made to pourtray her emotions and 
impressions, either with the pencil or the pen, were 
in obedience to the impulses of the strong youthful 
soul in the absence of sympathy, striving to 
record its feelings of happiness, and conceptions of 
beauty. She was too true and natural a being to be 
otherwise than lovely. Her beauty Avas of that 
earnest contemplative expressive kind, which neither 
dazzles nor astonishes, but wins imperceptibly and 
surely. Not that Patience was deficient in those 



48 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

personal charms which influence so mysteriously the 
most philosophic of men. No one could have passed 
over lightly her fair golden hair, her large, clear, 
blue, almond-shaped eyes, her figure medium-shaped, 
so lithe and graceful, the springy elastic step of 
health and youth, not to be acquired from the most 
fashionable teachers of deportment : yet Patience was 
one of those women of whom it might be truly 
said — 

" I must have loved thee, 
Hadst thou not been fair." 

Fate, destiny, or what you will, had determined 
that Captain Ardmore and Patience Gray, two 
beings, so distant in rank and station, so congenial 
in tastes, sympathies, and sentiments, should become 
acquainted. Captain Ardmore was returning one 
day from the fort from an angling excursion ; he had 
just arrived at a rude bridge, formed by a huge pine, 
which had fallen across a singularly wild and pic- 
turesque stream. The dense covert of alder bushee 
prevented him from seeing the spot where he in- 
tended to cross until he came suddenly and unex- 
pectedly upon it. He had barely time to note that 
his abrupt appearance had startled a female figure 
midway on the precarious bridge, ere a faint scream 
and a splash told that the person had lost her balance 
and fallen into the water ; in this place dammed up 
into a broad and deep pool. In an instant the 
young officer had plunged in, and two or three 
vigorous strokes enabled him to reach Patience 



CONCLUSION OF CAPTAIN ARDMORE. 49 

Gray as soon as she rose to the surface. In less 
time than I have taken to recount it, she was borne 
safe to land, having sustained no greater injury from 
her immersion than the fright. 

Mr. Gray thanked the rescuer of his child, as man 
should do his fellow-man, and as the officer viewed 
the meeting between father and daughter, a tear of 
sympathy moistened his eyes. Never had he felt 
more keenly the applause of conscience, that true 
reward of every noble action ; and when he came to 
grow more acquainted with Patience, and found in 
her no mere common-place country-girl, his visits to 
the cottage began to be more frequent and more 
prolonged. 

His long absences were remarked and commented 
upon at the mess-table, and his brother-officers grew 
merry over Ardmore's good fortune in becoming 
acquainted with the belle of Chambly. Some gave 
him credit for an honourable attachment, and won- 
dered not a little at what they considered his infatu- 
ation (for spectators can be very stoical on the love 
affairs of their neighbours); but Lord Royster, 
wdiose gross nature led him to scoff at the idea of 
generous disinterested love uniting tw r o people of 
different grades in society, vowed that " Awdmoah " 
should not have it all his own way with the prettiest 
girl in Chambly, and offered to. lay a bet that he 
would cut him out. 

" Xo time like the present," said an officer. " If 
I'm not mistaken, les voila. Miss Gray and another 

E 



50 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

girl listening to the tattoo. I'll bet a dozen of 
champagne you don't go tip and introduce yourself 
at once." The windows of the mess-room looked 
out on the parade ground, and Patience and a young 
female companion happened this evening to be 
among the few who usually assembled to listen to 
the music of the fife and drum. In spite of his 
impudence, Lord Royster in his perfectly sober 
moments would have thought twice before he under- 
took this adventure, involving as it did the chance 
of a quarrel with Captain Ardmore, whose penchant 
for the rustic beauty was so well known. Now, 
however, heated and flustered with wine, the chal- 
lenge implying a covert insinuation of timidity w 7 as 
an inducement more than sufScient, and with a 
heavy oath he accepted the wager, and sallied forth 
more than half intoxicated from the mess-room. He 
crossed the parade-ground, and never doubting that 
his attentions could be ill received by two country- 
girls, he accosted them in the most familiar manner. 
The girls, alarmed at his swaggering gait and thick- 
ness of speech, endeavoured to elude him, upon 
which Lord Royster thought proper to resort to a 
little gentle violence to vanquish what he considered 
their affectation of shyness. 

" Good gwacious, my pwetty deah," he said, as he 
threw his arm round the waist of Patience Gray, 
(t what's the use of bein so disagweeable ; I w^ont 
eat you ; just one kiss and I'll let you go; now why 
will you struggle so?" - . ' 



CONCLUSION OF CAPTAIN ARDMORE. 51 

At this instant Lord Royster's wrist was seized 
from behind with a vice-like grasp, which forced 
from him an exclamation of pain, and turning he 
beheld Captain Ardinore, his features working with 
the powerful efforts he made to restrain his passion. 

" Come, come, Ardmore," cried Lord Royster, 
attempting a jocular tone ; " damn it, you musn/t 
have it all your own way with the girls, even if you 
are commanding officer." 

With difficulty Captain Ardmore restrained the 
strong impulse to stretch Lord Royster at his feet, 
but he only said, in a deep concentrated tone which 
showed the inward struggle, 

" Cornet Lord Royster, if you do not immedi- 
ately withdraw, by heaven I will order out a file of 
men and place you under arrest." 

The discomfited Lord sneaked away. Captain 
Ardmore turned to support the half-fainting Patience 
Gray. 

No wonder if this second instance of heroism gave 
the climax to the feeling of affection which had long 
been strengthening in the heart of the ardent and 
grateful girl. In the eyes of Patience, Captain 
Ardmore was a hero, a demi-god, the incarnation of 
one of those ancient paladins of chivalry of which 
she had read and dreamed, the most perfect and 
romantic ideal of a lover which she had ever dared 
blushingly to invest with the hues of her exuberant 
fancy in secret communing with her own thoughts, 

Then began, for those two young beings, that 

e 2 



52 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

brief, delightful, delusive, but not the less enraptur- 
ing phase of existence, comprehended in " first love, ,y 
that oasis in the desert of life on which all like to 
turn a backward gaze and lingeringly dwell upon ; 
and when Captain Ardmore, no less infatuated than 
herself, breathed, in one of their tete-a-tete strolls, at 
the witching evening hour, beside the murmur of 
the Richelieu rapids, vows of lasting and honourable 
love, Patience responded to them with such perfect 
childish touching confidence in her lover's sincerity , 
such content in the present, and such faith in the 
future, that had she then died, she would have 
" carried with her all her illusions, buried herself like 
an Eastern king with all his jewels and treasures, at 
the summit of human happiness* 

At length came the route for Montreal, Why 
attempt to describe the parting scene, or the feelings 
of Patience as she saw the troop defile past her 
father's house, and caught the last glimpse of her 
gallant lover, the possessor of her heart, and heard 
the last faint echoes of the bugles playing that beau- 
tiful Scottish air, " We ? ll maybe return to Lochaber 
nae mair." 

Such is a summary of Captain Ardmore's confes- 
sion to me; he made no attempt to extenuate his 

* I cannot forbear inserting the beautiful passage from 
Balzac to which I am indebted for the above : " Oh, mourir 
jeune et palpitant ! Destinee digne oVemporter avec soi Routes ses 
illusions, iensevelir comme un roi oV orient, avec ses pierreries et 
ses tresors, avec toute la fortune humaine? 



CONCLUSION OF CAPTAIN ARDMORE. 53 

weakness, his fickleness, his crime ; and oh ! as he 
lay there shorn of his strength and beauty, — he, so 
lately the gay, the gallant, the handsome, — I did not 
feel inclined to judge him harshly, as the reader may 
well suppose. I was rather disposed to seek for pleas 
w T hich he himself would not have admitted in self- 
justification. I could well imagine a host of conven- 
tional considerations founded on his rank in life, his 
duty to his family, the effect of time and absence, 
and the gaieties of Montreal, the implied rather than 
expressed pity of his brother officers at Ardmore's 
making a mesalliance, and though last, not least, the 
charms of Miss Vane, and the palpable efforts she 
had made to win him, and triumph over her rustic 
rival; all these considerations, though they did not 
acquit him, pleaded in extenuation of his fault. 

It was the evening, I think, of the same day, and 
Captain Ardmore had become again slightly delirious. 
I was sitting sadly by his bedside, when his servant 
entered, and said a lady wished to see me. At first 
my thoughts reverted to Miss Vane, but it needed 
only one glance to enable me to recognise in the 
applicant the original of the miniature. Yes, it was 
Patience Gray, but how changed from what she must 
have been when that likeness was taken. She who 
had been neglected and forgotten, had no sooner 
heard of the serious nature of Captain Ardmore's 
illness than she had come to pray to be admitted to 
watch over him as a nurse. 

No ; Patience Gray was not a girl of spirit. She 



54 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

had never ceased to love her faithless lover ; she did 
not know how to repay oblivion with oblivion. Her 
heart was plastic to the first impression of love, but 
that first impression could not be effaced ; and now that 
he was ill she flew on the wings of her disinterested 
affection to standi if possible, between him and death 5 
forgetful of broken vows, of personal pride, of conven- 
tionality, of what the world might say, of the danger 
of infection. This girl, hitherto so shy and timid, had 
grown heroic, had left her home, and come to Montreal 
in obedience to the mighty love which dwelt in her 
heart, inspired by one sole pure and holy motive, — her 
desire to save the man for whose life she would have 
given her own, the man who had forgotten her, and 
who was about to be married to another. 

She begged so hard to be admitted, I knew not 
how to refuse her. " Oh, yes, she could, she would 
restrain all ebullition of feeling ; she could control 
herself. At length, with the doctor's sanction, she 
was permitted to enter ; for the patient was always 
speaking of and expressing a wish to see her. 

He was asleep when she entered. When he 
awoke he did not know her., and confounded her with 
Miss Vane. "'Send for the carriage, Harriet, and 
we will go home/ 5 For days he remained in this 
half-conscious state. Then he rallied a little, and it 
was not thought advisable she should appear, lest a 
recognition should prove too great a shock. On 
Sunday morning he awoke perfectly conscious, and 
said to me, " I have only one wish, that I could know 



CONCLUSION OF CAPTAIN ARDMORE. 55 

that Patience had forgiven me." " She has, she has,'' 
I exclaimed, my heart full to bursting ; " she has 
been here nursing you." I could say no more ; but 
Patience had come from behind the curtain, and they 
were locked in each other's arms, 

I was ignorant enough to hope that he was better, 
but the doctor coming in, shook his head; unfavour- 
able symptoms had appeared during the night, he 
had not two hours to live. He knew it ; but she, 
Patience, who would undertake to convince her of 
the heart-rending truth ? 

" Patience, dear Patience! I had but one wish: 
to see you, to know that you forgave me, before — " 

" Hush ! hush ! " she exclaimed, with quivering 
lips, while she laid her cheek to his : " there is 
nothing to — to forgive— you must not speak — the 
doctor said you must be kept quiet — you must not 
speak, love ! it will exhaust you, and prevent your 
— ." She could not speak the word " recovery ; " 
the flood-gates of her grief burst open ; she sank 
down weeping on her knees by the bed-side. The 
sound of distant military music was heard. It was 
one of the regiments going to church, and the lively 
tune formed a jarring contrast to the grief and 
sadness within that chamber. Captain Ardmore's 
features lightened up as he heard the approaching 
sound. He made a faint effort to beat time with the 
left hand ; the right was clasped in both those of 
Patience Gray. Suddenly, the hand dropped, — he 
became perfectly still, — the lower jaw fell. And thus 



56 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

he lay without a sign of life, except the heavy 
laboured breathing ! Oh, God ! how inexpressibly 
painful is this last struggle when all hope is gone, 
and we can only pray that every breath which the 
beloved draws may be the last ! At length, this 
sound ceased ; all was over. The gallant spirit of 
Captain Ardmore had passed away for ever; yet 
still Patience reclined motionless by the bed-side, 
pressing the dead hand between her own ; from time 
to time carrying it mechanically to her bosom. 

Miss Vane had been sent for. She did not arrive 
till after Captain Ardmore's death. The sight of 
the inanimate body was too great a shock for her, 
and she was removed in strong convulsions. But, 
strange to say, since the death, Patience had become 
quite calm. Hers was " a grief too big for tears" 

A few days, and that most magnificent of sad 
spectacles — a soldier's funeral — took place. Troops 
are lining the streets, the soldiers step slowly with 
reversed arms, and ever and anon is heard the roll of 
the muffled drum, and the plaintive swell of that 
most mournfully beautiful of dirges, " the Dead March 
in Saul ; " and more eyes than mine are moist as the 
coffin, surmounted by sword and helmet, is borne 
past, followed by the charger of the deceased, and at 
the grave more than one soldier of the firing-party 
drew his cuff across his eyes, to wipe away the blind- 
ing tear, which hindered him in the discharge of his 
military duty. 

Patience Gray had been residing with her father 



CONCLUSION OF CAPTAIN ARDMORE. 57 

at a relative's house in Montreal. Every one had 
noticed with wonder the strange calm which had 
come over her since Captain Ardmore's death. Those 
who loved her would rather have seen her grieve, as 
she had done previously to that event. She appeared 
to be sinking into a state of mental insensibility 
which made them tremble for her intellect. Thus 
she remained until the day of the funeral, when, to 
the astonishment of all, she seemed to rouse from 
her apathy, and insisted on being present at the 
church, and afterwards following the procession to 
the grave-yard in a carriage. 

They yielded, in the hope that even this sad 
excitement would benefit her, but she seemed quite 
indifferent to, and unconscious of, all that was going 
forward, until the first volley was fired over her 
lover's grave. Then she raised herself, and sate 
erect in the carriage, while a gleam of intelligence 
passed over her hitherto inanimate features, listening 
eagerly. There came another, and yet another 
discharge, and then the whole fatal truth flashed 
back upon her mind with overwhelming force. She 
uttered one loud piercing cry, and fell senseless into 
the arms of her agonized father. 

She recovered only partially the use of her fine 
intellect. Never, from that time till the day of her 
death, which happened a year afterwards, did she give 
any tokens of violent emotion, or vivid recollection. 

Far different was it with Miss Vane. Her grief 
had been of that violent character which rarely lasts. 



58 QUINS AND WRINKLES. 

As the grass began to grow above Captain Ardmore's 
grave, so did the memory of the gallant soldier wax 
faint with Miss Vane. In three months, she began 
again to be seen in public; in six, she was going to 
parties as usual, and flirting openly with Lord Roy- 
ster, to whom the on dit reported her to be engaged. 

Shortly after the death of Captain Ardmore, his 
brother-officers caused a tablet to be erected in the 
church to his memory, with a medallion profile in 
basso-relievo, and ' a touching inscription beneath, 
recording the feelings of esteem and respect which 
the virtues of the deceased had inspired. One day 
after service, I happened to be just behind Miss 
Vane, who was leaning on Lord Royster's arm, and 
heard her distinctly say, as they stopped before the 
tablet, "Yes, it's a good likeness; but they might 
have made it a little more ornamental. ,, And to 
this man, on whose effigy she was gazing, she had 
been betrothed. He had been buried on the very 
day appointed for their marriage. 

Just one year from Captain Ardmore's death, in 
the same church where the tablet was erected to his 
memory, did Miss Vane become the bride of Lord 
Royster. On that very day, by a strange coincidence, 
Patience Gray was buried at Chambly. While the 
bells at Montreal rang a merry peal for the wedding 
of Miss Vane, a knell # was tolled for the Rose of 
Chambly ! 

I could have wished, somehow, that Captain 
Ardmore had been buried at Chambly, and that the 



CONCLUSION OF CAPTAIN AKDMORE. 59 

dust of the aristocratic lover and the village maiden 
had mingled together on the banks of that river, near 
which their short dream of love and happiness was 
spent. I should have fancied when I visited the 
spot that I heard, in the rapids of the Richelieu, a 
dirge of invisible spirits for those two young beings 
so prematurely cut off from the world 



60 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 



THE YOUNG LADY ON A VISIT. 



" I know a maiden fair to see, 
Take care ; 
She can both false and friendly be, 
Beware ! Beware ! 
Trust her not, 
She is fooling thee ! " 

Longfellow. 

"Well, well — 'time has been, time has been."' 
Such was the mysterious remark of the old woman 
in " The Pacha of Many Tales; " and we, too, can 
shake our head and mutter, " Time has been." 

Yes ; the time has been when the magical words 
" a young lady " comprized, in our mind, the sum of 
all earthly blessings. When, to see and dream about 
this exquisite compound of angel and mortal, waist and 
flounces, to know that such beings existed round and 
about us, was sufficient to fill our cup of happiness 
full to running over. Not only did we enjoy a sense 
of present felicity, but a heaven of anticipation; 
for " man never is, but always to be blest." This 
was a confident hope of becoming some day better 
kown and appreciated by the fair creatures (what an 
expressive word creature is applied to young ladies !) 
who now flitted, like "phantoms of delight," about 
us, and were discerned dimly and through a mist 



THE YOUNG LADY ON A VISIT. 61 

(of bashfulness !) in our walks, at church, at balls, 
conversaziones, and pic-nics. 

But this was not a thing impatiently desired, but 
rather waited for, even as the sensible orthodox cler- 
gyman, while painting paradise in the most alluring 
colours, enjoys the present world, and is in no haste 
to quit it even for a better. We are very happy in 
our present ignorance, or rather dawn of enlighten- 
ment, and it is a pleasant employment to fancy what 
our feelings will be when admitted to all the happi- 
ness of knowing real grown*up young ladies, 
dancing, promenading, talking, riding, polking, and 
flirting with them, and be like the happy dogs who 
do such things, and yet live. We used to wonder if, 
when it came to our turn, we could affect similar 
indifference, for we felt sure it must be affected ; 
was it natural, after having pressed for only one 
instant the tips of Miss Charming's fingers, to walk 
coolly away, as if nothing had happened ? Well, 
we thought not, and M where ignorance is bliss, &c." 
Ah ! once more we reiterate, 6i time has been*" 

Those were the days when a visit to a ball, concert, 
or theatre used to put Virgil, Horace, and Homer 
out of our heads for at least a week afterwards, and 
instead of the muses and other classical nymphs, 
beautiful modern young ladies with swan-like necks, 
delicately rounded arms, gloriously modelled shoul- 
ders, exquisitely shaped waists, flashing eyes, dimpled 
cheeks, and bewitching smiles took exclusive posses- 
sion of our imagination and filled our waking and 



62 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

sleeping fancies. In those days we took long solitary 
walks, and some times encountered young ladies unex- 
pectedly, in what to our romantic eyes seemed desolate 
Salvator Rosa scenes, peopled with numerous banditti 
invisible to common mortals, hiding behind rocks 
and stunted firs, just where Mrs. Radcliffe or Sir 
Walter Scott would have placed them. We lived 
fast in those days, for we became incontinently the 
hero of an adventurous courtship, interspersed with 
hair-breadth escapes, and all but invincible obstacles 
from flinty-hearted fathers, uncles, and other kith 
and kin of the aforesaid young lady, who was in the 
opinion of all unimaginative spectators quietly pursu- 
ing her walk, all unconscious that she had become 
the heroine for whom we dared all these dangers. 

As we grew older, our love and admiration of the 
sex,* though still increasing, became more catholic, 
discerning, and blended with other objects. We 
began to be fond of fishing and shooting ; but more 
for the sake of nature than these amusements ; to 
love trees with their beautiful waving branches, 
swaying so gently in the summer breeze, or bending 
down as if to touch the limpid water which reflected 
their loveliness ; or stretching abroad their arms, as 

* Designating women as the sex par excellence, doubtless 
implies that man is so inferior a being as to be comparatively 
speaking of no sex at all, which of course nobody can deny. 
It is a proof of the inherent generosity of women that they 
love, and even condescend to marry men, in spite of their 
un worthiness. 



THE YOUNG LADY ON A VISIT. 06 

though sympathising with the traveller who sought 
their grateful shade ; and we loved also the fair 
broad river upon whose banks we had been reared 
from childhood, and which we swam in boyish pride 
at seventeen, and from whose waves we once rescued 
— oh, day of joy — a fair girl (upset from a canoe, 
which floated bottom upwards on the water), and 
bore her triumphantly to the shore. We no longer 
robbed birds of their young, or snared squirrels now. 
We found far greater pleasure in listening to the 
notes of the former and watching the gambols of the 
latter. We loved to wander, rod in hand, up some 
winding stream, and drag the speckled beauties from 
their snug chambers underneath a rock or twisted 
root, and, as they glistened in the sun, with spots of 
purple, and silver, and gold, Ave envied the painter 
who could transfer their loveliness to canvass. 

How many a merry fishing-party do we recollect, 
when we encamped beside some deserted mill, where 
the dam promised us fine sport, and there we chatted 
and told stories, and a picturesque group we formed 
in that romantic spot ; one casting his line and occa- 
sionally listening to the lively sallies of his com- 
panions, ever and anon giving his keen eye and 
practised hand to the task of securing some wily but 
luckless half-pounder ; a second cooking the trout, 
secundem artem, and causing savoury steams, eloquent 
of coming good cheer, to invade our olfactories ; a 
third, unpacking a hamper, and proceeding to uncork 
a demi-john of jolly brown ale; and a fourth, "recubans 



64 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

sub tegmine fagi," or to give a liberal translation, 
stretched lazily along, with head and shoulders 
propped against a tree, improving the opportunity, 
as the Presbyterians say, save, that instead of long 
faces, he is surrounded with merry visages with 
widely distended mouths, veritable open counte- 
nances, while the echoes of the solemn woods, which 
have rung to the war-whoop of the Indian, now give 
back laughter and song. 

" O the merry days when we were yonng." 

We are older ! Some people have begun to drop 
the more familiar appellation^ and call us, Mr. 
Lovemall. We are not proud, not in the least con- 
ceited, only particularly self-reliant, and we wonder 
that young ladies do not try to look into our heart 
and discover the hidden treasures laid up there for 
somebody. We are getting acquainted with young 
ladies now, and think them charming, delightful, 
bewitching. But we have done nothing rash ; we 
have given no symptoms of having gone out of our 
senses with sudden joy. Altogether, we sup- 
port our good fortune much more coolly than we 
thought we could. We think the reason must be 
because we have not seen the young lady ; because, 
in short, we are not in love. So we make frantic 
efforts to fall into that enviable state of bondage. 
We go out wherever we are asked ; we accompany 
young ladies in walks ; when we hear of a new 
beauty come to town, we make Herculean efforts for 



THE YOUNG LAD f Y ON A VISIT. 65 

an introduction ; we write verses in albums ; w T e 
make one in all sorts of excursions, in which ladies, 
by the most unforseen conjunction of circumstances, 
may be expected to join ; we accept politely worded 
invitations, which we, in our then ignorance of the 
world, do not know were never intended to be 
accepted ; and go out to the country, and stay for 
a day or two, much, doubtless, to the gratification 
of the young lady or ladies who have bewitched us, 
but the old folks wish us devoutly anywhere else ; 
and w T e accept invitations of another sort, which 
were intended to be accepted, and go for a day 
and are departing to-morrow ; but it is %i to-morrow \ 
and to-morrow, and to-morrow " with us ; and still we 
don't go, — while all our yesterdays have lighted us 
not " to dusty death" but to most agreeable pic-nics 
and riding-parties, with quadrilles and polkas in the 
evening. Well, we do not those things with impu- 
nity. We have heart-aches occasionally, but still 
we do not fall in love. Cupid's bolt still passes 
on, and leaves us — 

" In manly meditation fancy free." 

But stay, have we forgotten, — can we ever forget 
somewhere in the neighbourhood of romantic nine- 
teen, — there came a young lady to B , on a visit. 

Not that we would imply this to be an unusual or 
singular occurrence, or that there may not have 
been at that time several young ladies similarly 
situated in B — — ; but that this young lady became 

F 



66 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

to us of more especial importance than all the 
rest. 

The young lady on a visit belongs to a class (if 
we may so express ourselves) especially dangerous 
to the peace of mind of youthful bachelors. Our 
hearts are proof against beauty which we see peri- 
odically, daily or weekly ; but " the young lady on a 
visit" — oh ! beware of her ! But let us not antici- 
pate. We were in the habit of making little 
pencil-sketches of our friends, which were generally 
considered tolerably good likenesses. We had long 
promised to do one for a married friend — a Mr. Jones ; 
and to tell the truth, had omitted to fulfil the 
engagement. One day he met us, and reminded us 
so politely of it, that we quite blushed at our remiss- 
ness. But shall we confess? There was another 
reason. It dawned upon us at that moment, that a 
beautiful young lady whom we had frequently seen 
with a younger brother of our friend, was the 
identical young lady then on a visit at his home. 

And he had mentioned her name- more than once, 
and we, in our dulness and stupidity had always 
pictured a maiden lady, turned of fifty at least. 
Who could have imagined that Miss Prim was either 

young or beautiful ? And she had been in B 

for weeks, and all this time we might have known 
her, had we chosen. Now, at least, we determined 
that no time should be lost. We should at length 
get a near view of the divinity, whom we had fre- 
quently noticed m the street. We master our 



THE YOUNG LADY ON A VISIT. 67 

sudden emotion of joy sufficiently to make a methodi- 
cal appointment with our friend for that day, at 
two o'clock, and go on our way rejoicing. 

We were just at that time of life when an intro- 
duction to a stranger young lady becomes a very 
agreeable adventure. Two o'clock came, and with 
it a fashionable rat-tat, executed by our hand at 
our friend's door. Miss Prim surpasses our brightest 
expectations. At the first glance we think her 
beautiful ; at the second, very beautiful ; at a third, 
we have settled it, that she is more beautiful than 

any one else in B ; and a fourth decides that 

she is more beautiful than any young lady we have 
ever seen. At a fifth, we are firmly convinced that 
no more beautiful young lady can exist in the 
world. 

We sit down to our task doggedly, perseveringly ; 
we make the sketch of our friend; it is handed 
about : it is much admired. Miss Prim hesitatingly 
remarks, that she would value such a sketch of her- 
self, — oh! ever so much! Aha 1 we say to ourself 
inwardly, like the war-horse mentioned in Job. We 
show no outward sign of emotion, though our heart 
bounds within us at the thought that it is in our 
power to oblige Miss Prim. We offer then and 
there to sketch her likeness. She takes us at our 
word 3 and sits down at once, in such a becoming, 
such a bewitching attitude, — "pose" is the artistic 
term. 

We make a sketch. Oh, a careful one ! How else 

f 2 



68 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

should we attempt to trace the fair oval face, the 
large almond-shaped eyes, the ruby lips, the beauti- 
fully waving tresses. We could be a week sketching 
Miss Prim, and sigh that it was finished then. At 
last it is done; and though it is the best we have yet 
done, on a nice sheet of Bristol-board, with a delicate 
tinge of colour on the lips and cheeks, and blue for 
the eyes, we are quite dissatisfied with it, as we look 
at the incomparable original. But everybody else 
says "it is so like;" and Miss Prim says she thinks it 
a flattered likeness ! We intended to make a gallant 
speech on the occasion, but the very audacity, the 
absurdity of the idea— a flattered likeness of Miss 
Prim, — struck us dumb. Make a copy of the Venus 
di Medicis, or the Apollo, which shall surpass the 
the original, represent a scene more naturally than 
nature herself, but don't talk of a flattered likeness 
of Miss Prim. 

Miss Prim puts her sketch on the piano, and looks 
at it admiringly, and says, " I don't know how to 
thank you enough, Mr. Lovemall." " Perhaps," 
says Mrs. Jones, " Mr. Lovemall will give us the 
pleasure of his company to tea this evening, and then 
you will be able to repay him for his trouble with 
a song." Our heart throbbed with gratitude for that 
invitation. It was the very thing we coveted most 
in the world. 

The other members of our family wondered at our 
good spirits. We locked the secret in our own 
heart. 






THE YOUNG LADY ON A VISIT. 69 

u It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul. 1 " A serene 
consciousness of coming happiness diffuses itself over 
our spirit ; a proper pride, a due sense of our own 
importance, of one who had made the acquaintance 
of the beautiful Priscilla Prim. Our step was more 
elastic, our head more erect ; — aha ! were we not 
going to take tea with her that evening. It had not 
escaped our penetrating glance that the younger 
Jones, a boy — a stripling of nineteen now presumed 
to ingratiate himself with Miss Prim, and that she, as 
young ladies will do, was very well pleased to watch 
the poor youth getting desparately in love with her, 
and even to flirt with him, doubtless, for want of a 
better substitute. Poor fellow ! You can have no 
idea how we pitied that young Jones ; for we saw 
that he soon stood second in her good graces. Was 
it natural, indeed, to prefer a beardless boy of seven- 
teen to a young man, who, in another month, would 
complete his twentieth year. As w T e tied our cravat, 
we felt sincere compassion for the poor youth, and 
for the trouble he was preparing for himself. But 
these boys are so conceited ! It would serve him 
right, and prove a good lesson to him after all. 

On that eventful evening we became Priscilla 
Prim's slave. Every song she sang added a link to 
the chain which bound us. AVhen she chanted, 
" Arise, arise, Zarifa," we felt there was no fear of 
our proving the false Abdallah to a Zarifa like 
Priscilla Prim. And when she warbled, " Fly to 
the desert, fly with me," we almost thought she 



70 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

meant it. Oh, with what bewitching pathos did she 
enunciate those words, and how irresistibly did they 
appeal to us— 

" For, oh, the choice, what heart can doubt, 
Of tents with love, or thrones without." 

All her songs were about love (which, by-the-bye, 
is a remarkable peculiarity of young ladies' singing 
in general), and every one seemed written expressly 
to pourtray the state of our feelings towards Miss 
Priscilla Prim. 

How we got through the evening we know not. 
We have a vague reminiscence of engaging in whist, 
but whether we played three minutes or three hours, 
or whether we won or lost, we have not the slightest 
recollection. We neither saw nor heard anything 
but the fair Priscilla. She gave us her hand at 
parting, and she did not hesitate, or seem in the least 
uneasy or put out, as she said, " Good-night, Mr. 
Lovemall, thank you again for my picture." We 
repeated the words over and over again as we went 
home that night, occasionally singing snatches of 
" Zarifa," " Fly with me," and other songs which she 
had sung, utterly indifferent to any opinions which 
the passers-by might form on the subject of our 
sanity. Her farewell words seemed commonplace 
enough, but we fancied there was a hidden meaning 
underneath. We begin to plan and build castles in 
the air, to rebel against an imaginary persecution of 
all our friends and relations, — a cruel deep-laid plot 



THE YOUNG LADY ON A VISIT. 71 

against the happiness of Miss Prim and ourself. To 
our astonishment we find our eyes growing moist as 
we repeat the lines : — 

u Say, was it right to sever 
Two fond hearts for ever." 

Why, oh why, should we be separated ? Did not 
Antony lose the world for love ? And we, too, 
would forfeit prospects, profession, family, every- 
thing, for the sake of Miss Priscilla Prim. Ah, had 
we ever in our thoughtless ignorance dared to sneer 
at "love in a cottage?" 

We lie down to sleep, " bat not to rest" for w r e 
dream that Miss Prim and ourself are flying from 
the pursuit of enraged parents and guardians on a 
swift dromedary across the deserts of Arabia. We 
are overtaken, not by our parents, but by the 
simoom, which has also been pursuing us; in fact, 
the whole world seemed to be against us, and just as 
we are about expiring, wrapped in a last embrace, 
are awakened by our sister calling from, the foot of 
the stairs, "Are you never going to come down, 
Pensive; we have nearly finished breakfast." We 
go down humming " Ply to the desert, fly with 
me." "What put that tune into your head," says 
my sister ; and a sly laugh goes round the table. 
Thoughts of Miss Prim come to our aid. When did 
a lover ever meet with sympathy ? 

A week elapses, during which we have been inde- 
fatigable in making up parties of pleasure, to show 



72 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

Miss Prim the environs of B . She has seen 

everything that can come under the head of "lions/' 
far and near, and we fancy — we only fancy, for we 
are a modest man, as we have before hinted — that 
from our conversation she must have gathered some 
knowledge of the character of her cicerone. At last, 
the hateful day arrives which has been fixed as the 
last for Miss Prim's sojourn in B . 

On the morning of this eventful day we went to 
look at the college, which is situated on an eminence 
and commands a fine view. We had Mrs. Jones on 
our arm. Harry conducted Miss Prim. We looked 
behind and caught him (impudent young monkey !) 
as he was assisting her over a stile, in the act of 
squeezing her hand, which she was endeavouring to 
get away from him. Poor fellow, on second thoughts, 
we were not jealous of him ; it was natural he should 
wish to make the most of his brief opportunity. 
We are afraid, though, we were rather a dull com- 
panion to Mrs. Jones. We found ourself more than 
once calling her Miss Prim. 

On our way home, we stopped at the public 
gardens, which are well worthy of a visit, and here 
Mrs. Jones left us, whether because she pitied us for 
our evidently absorbed state of mind, and was willing 
to give us an opportunity of conversing more freely 
w T ith Miss Prim, or because she really had business 
to attend to, we know not ; and then, we rather 
think, Master Harry was nowhere. He was very 
good-natured, though, and not at all jealous ; had he 



THE YOUNG LADY 0"NT A VISIT. 73 

not had the pleasure of her society for hours during 
each day for six weeks ? He seemed only too glad 
that we should join our entreaties to his to detain 
Miss Prim a day or two longer in B . 

United in this great cause, we poured forth floods 
of eloquence to shake Miss Prim's resolution, and 
she evidently began to waver. Our coadjutor com- 
pletely destroyed the character of the hero-captain of 
the steamboat. He declared that he (the captain) 
was terribly given to drinking; that he was already 
half-seas over, and that it was really unsafe to go in 
his boat. Poor Miss Prim turned appealingly to 
us : " But is it really true, Mr. Lovemall ? Harry 
never sticks at a little embellishment to serve his 
turn." This was certainly a polite w T ay of hinting 
at the fact that my friend was an accomplished 
fibber. That young gentleman was meanwhile 
winking most furiously at us to support his state- 
ment. The captain was a very handsome dog. 
" He is terribly dissipated," said we, " and altogether 
a very fast sort of character. One of those Yankee 
captains, who, in their eagerness to pass other boats 
at any hazard, throw on hams to make the fire burn 
more furiously, and jump on the boiler to keep it 
from bursting." 

This last shot of ours told pretty well. " But my 
mother will be uneasy if I don't come by this boat 
to-night. I have stayed already a fortnight over 
my time, and it looks so foolish to change one's 



74 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

mind ; besides, Mrs. Jones will have my boxes sent 
down to the boat, I know." It was settled at last 
to leave the matter undecided until Miss Prim 
should return and consult Mrs. Jones ; and so we 
sauntered about the garden conversing. If any one 
had asked us what were our ideas of the summit of 
earthly bliss, we should have replied at once, " saun- 
tering about that garden with Miss Prim leaning on 
our arm." It was not Harry's policy to interrupt or 
intrude upon us. He evidently trusted to our influ- 
ence to persuade Miss Prim into staying, and then, 
as she lived in his brother's house, he should reap far 
greater benefit than ourself ; so we had our tete-a-tete 
unbroken. 

A propos of accidents in steamers, she gave us a 
long and interesting account of a narrow escape she 
had of being killed by falling from a spirited horse 
not properly broken in. We listened perfectly 
happy in the present moment ; we could have wished 
it had never ended, only we could not suppress an 
occasional ejaculation, and looks, and muttered words 
of sympathy and compassion, as she spoke of her 
beautiful features being bruised — those features so 
peerless in their symmetry. We could not help 
saying, " I must believe you, Miss Prim, and yet it 
is difficult to do so when I look at those features." 

We are sure she felt the compliment — if compli- 
ment it can be called, when we spoke so sincerely 
from our heart. Compliments can never be properly 



THE YOUNG LADY OX A VISIT. ?D 

appreciated when people can stop coldly and thank 
you in set phrase. Oh no, give us the look of 
thanks. 

" I regret I did not make your acquaintance 
sooner, Miss Prim ; and yet, perhaps, I ought rather 
to congratulate myself when I look at poor Harry 
yonder ; my heart is not made of adamant." Another 
look of thanks, and then a glance of such comical 
expression towards Harry : " Yes, poor Harry does 
look melancholy; you must keep up his spirits when 
I am gone, Mr. Lovemall, for I do really think he 
loves me very much." What we might have said, 
what revelation might have passed our lips at this 
interesting juncture, must for ever remain unknown, 
for just at this moment we were joined by Mrs. 
Jones, on our arrival at her house, and we took our 
departure, promising to be at the steamboat. 

A couple of hours intervene. Alas ! the die is 
cast. Miss Prim is going. We don't know who 
looks most miserable, Harry or ourself. Our heart 
is too full to say more than a few broken words. 
We make shift to get out this sentence, a If I should 

be at C soon, may I call?" "Oh, certainly/' 

replies Miss Prim, " I shall be delighted to introduce 
you to my mother, and I am sure " (here she smiled, 
as I thought, archly) " Mr. Jenkins will be most 
happy to make your acquaintance." We did not 
think of it at the time, but afterwards, the idea rose 
up repeatedly, and prompted this question, which we 



76 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

kept continually asking ourself without coming to 
any solution whatever, " Who is this Jenkins f 

What power women have over their feelings to be 
sure. Miss Prim was still smiling archly, doubtless 
to keep up her spirits, w T hile we — we, you might 
have knocked us down with a feather; and we don't 
think Harry was much better. She stood at the 
stern of the boat, and waved her handkerchief. We 
darted at full speed along the banks of the river, and 
as we got some head-start, while the steamer was 
getting under weigh, we managed to keep up with it 
for a good half-mile. Then we sat down exhausted 
on the bank, and watched the last flutter of the 
handkerchief, and strained our gaze on that receding 
form till the boat was lost to view by a turn in the 
river. The state of our feelings then might best be 
described in the words of the opera : — 

" All is lost to me for ever." 

But poor Harry's condition was apparently more 
distressing than our own. He could, however, find 
a refuge in tears. That was a consolation denied to 
us. No, our heart bled, but we did not weep. We 
were too much of a man for that. We mutually 
endeavoured to console each other. We were not 
jealous. Each found a delight, a solace, in the 
society of one who could appreciate Miss Prim. 

One morning, about three weeks after her de- 
parture, Harry Jones rushed into our room in a very 



THE YOUNG LADY OX A VISIT. 77 

disordered state. He could not speak, but he laughed 
wildly, almost hysterically, and pointed to a para- 
graph in a paper, which he grasped convulsively in 
his hand, and which ran to this effect : " Yesterday, 
by the Rev. Mr. Marplot, John W. Jenkins, teacher 
in the High School of C — , to Miss Priscilla Prim, 
only daughter of Mrs. Prim, &c. &c." I read no 
more — the perfidious girl had been engaged to this 
wretched Jenkins all the time she had been flirting 
with Harry and myself. " And to a poor devil of a 
schoolmaster, as ugly as he can be, and blind of one 
eye — I know the villain," cried Harry, and again he 
laughed hysterically, tore handfuls of hair from his 
head, and danced frantically about the room in some 
nondescript step which would have moved the mirth 
of any unconcerned spectator. 

Thus Harry and ourself had both been made 
victims by an engaged young lady. That night 
we made a solemn determination to die a bachelor. 
We also resolved to shut ourself up from the world, 
and go to no more parties, for the sight of young 
ladies had now become hateful to us. To this reso- 
lution we adhered most religiously for the space of a 
fortnight, at the end of which time we were recon- 
ciled to a young lady, between whom and ourself a 
coolness had arisen about the period of our becoming 
acquainted with Miss Prim — we beg her pardon, 
Mrs. Jenkins — and we were again restored to the 
world and our friends. 



78 



THE SHAKSPERIAN WOOER; 

OR, 

LESSONS IN LOVE. 



The widow Jenkins was a most estimable woman, 
remarkable for nothing but being highly respectable. 
A very good clue to the character of Mrs. Jenkins 
and family might have been formed from entering 
their drawing-room. That apartment was always in 
(what is termed) apple-pie order. Every chair knew 
its proper place ; the very poker, shovel, and tongs 
appeared to have a cold consciousness of their import- 
ance in forming part of the manage of such highly 
respectable people. There were the due proportion 
of anti-macassars, d'oyleys, and other nondescript 
articles of ladies' work in crochet and Berlin-wool, 
spread over fauteuils and sofas, to attach themselves 
to the shoulders and coat-skirts of morning visitors ; 
and many a timid man has been driven to the verge 
of despair by the frantic rushes made by Mrs. 
Jenkins and daughters to recover the property which 
he has been innocently and unconsciously on the 
point of appropriating. 

On the round centre-table are just half-a-dozen 
gaudily-bound insipid annuals, with a fair sprinkling 
of albums, for the Misses Jenkins are great en- 



THE SHAKSPERIAN WOOER. 79 

couragers of original poetic composition, though they 
do not always take the trouble of reading the verses 
which have been written at their request. All these 
books are placed at regular intervals, and do not look 
as if they were intended to be opened and read. 
You never, by any chance, see a book lying about as 
if any one had been perusing it. In short, they are 
not a reading family, neither Mrs. Jenkins nor her 
handsome daughters. We once detected one of the 
annuals about an inch out of its wonted place, and 
Mrs. Jenkins suspiciously near it, and in the act of 
yawning; from which symptoms w T e have always 
concluded that Mrs. Jenkins must, on that occasion, 
have been making an attempt to read, and that she 
had either been, or was going asleep — an effect, as she 
ingenuously admits, of all her literary efforts. It is 
but justice to Mrs. Jenkins, to state that we never 
saw her in the actual fact of reading ; nay, it is 
possible that from long disuse she may have forgotten 
that useful accomplishment- 
Mrs. Jenkins and her daughters have no time to 
waste on reading. They are too busily employed 
with the cares of life, viz., paying and receiving 
visits, giving and getting all the news of the town, 
icork (in the sense which ladies attach to that word, 
including crochet, Berlin-wool, embroidery, making 
little ornaments, &c, &c, &c.) shopping, walking, 
pic-nics, evening parties, and though last, not least, 
taking refuge from ennui in one grand resource, viz., 
seeing life from a bow-window which looks most 



80 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

conveniently into the principal street; ensconced 
behind the heavy curtains of which, they can take 
observations of human nature, and spy their friends 
and neighbours without being in their turn subject 
to supervision. In this refined, intellectual, and 
highly laudable method of combining amusement and 
instruction, the Jenkinses pass many hours of each 
day. 

And yet there are some highly valuable books in 
Mrs. Jenkins's house, but books, alas, which, as she 
mentions in strict confidence to every one of her 
friends and acquaintance, belonged to her late 
husband, and " are not, you know, proper books for 
ladies to read," being no less than " Tom Jones," 
" Perigrine Pickle," " Roderick Random," " Tristram 
Shandy," and the rest of the works of those depraved 
authors, Fielding, Smollett, and Sterne. Accord- 
ingly these books are taboo, and kept carefully under 
lock and key. We blush to state that often on cast- 
ing a glance towards the sacred cabinet where such 
treasures were lying hidden, unappreciated by their 
possessor, and useless to the world, we have felt the 
spirit of a burglar rising within our bosom. 

The Misses Jenkins were too well-bred young 
ladies to be termed flirts, but they had been carefully 
trained to look to the main chance in matrimony, to 
see the propriety of having two strings to one's bow, 
and not to encourage one lover after another more 
eligible had appeared upon the horizon. The eldest 
Miss Jenkins had once a literary lover, who cherished 



THE SHAKSPERIAX WOOER. 81 

the fond but delusive hope of forming the mind of 
his intended before marriage, till it should assimilate 
perfectly to his own. 

Mr. Prose was remarkable for an almost insane 
admiration of Shakspere, and was determined to 
marry no woman who could not sympathize with 
him in his taste for his favourite bard. Accordingly 
he used to come, evening after evening, and favour 
the family circle of the Jenkinses with long extracts 
from the immortal poet, " This dear Williams" as 
he has been newly christened by our " volatile neigh- 
bours, &e." No method of love-making could have 
been more admirable had the swain pitched upon a 
young lady with the proper literary tastes, but the 
Jenkinses, like Gallio, " cared for none of these 
things" Had Prose possessed quickness of observa- 
tion, he would have seen that he sadly bored his 
intended and her mother, that an emeute was brewing, 
and that mortal patience could not much longer 
endure what they looked upon as so cruel an in- 
fliction. But Prose was so wrapt up in his own 
adoration of the poet, that he never questioned his 
eventual success, even when they talked, interrupted, 
yawned, or even laughed at the finest passages. 

At length a great and important evening arrived — 
an evening on which Prose had decided that he might 
safely depend on the sympathy and congeniality of 
taste which he had been so long; labouring to create. 
He had postponed a formal proposal for the hand of 
Miss Jenkins, until he could make it with eclat in 



82 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

the sure confidence of a reciprocity of his own 
enthusiasm. He felt that moment had now arrived, 
and to-night he chose for the reading, Othello's 
defence before the Senate. The Moor's tale of love, 
and how he won Brabantio's daughter, would (in 
Mr. Prose's opinion) be a fine preparation for the 
avowal of his own attachment for the fair Arabella 
Jenkins. No thought crossed the mind of the 
sanguine Prose that the selection might be ominous, 
as Othello had "loved not wisely, but too well." 
. The evening arrived, and punctually to the 
appointed hour arrived Mr. Prose, with Shakspere 
under his arm. The innocent, single-minded young 
man did not perceive that the interruptions, from 
the moment of his entering, were even more nume- 
rous, and more sustained than usual, that the younger 
sisters kept their heads, if possible, more invariably 
bent over their "work" and that Mrs. Jenkins and 
Arabella might have seemed to have made soma 
secret compact, so ingenious and persevering were 
they in interfering with Othello's wooing. 

Prose. The subject which I have selected for 
this evening's reading, is — 

Mrs. Jenkins. Pray, Mr. Prose, let me offer you a 
cup of tea. (Rising and ringing the bell. To the servant 
who enters.) Tea, Susan, if you please. 

P?*ose. We will, if you please, preface — 

Sally (entering, and banging the tray down so as to 
startle Prose, with a significant look at her mistress). 
Tea, ma'am, if you please. 



THE SHAKSPERIAN WOOER. 80 

Mrs. Jenkins. Oh, I'm so glad tea's come ; it will 
keep me awake ! I'm so dreadfully sleepy. ( Yawns. ) 

Frose. The tendency to slumber will soon depart 
when you know that the play I have chosen for this 
evening's entertainment is — 

Mrs. Jenkins. Susan, take this cup of tea to 
Mr. Prose, and be sure you don't spill it. I've filled 
it too full. 

Prose (persevering). You should know, before I 
begin, that Desdemona has eloped from her father, 
Brabantio, with Othello. Brabantio brings his com- 
plaint before the Duke and Senate, and Othello 
justifies himself in this splendid speech — thank 
you — yes. 

These words, thus oddly prefaced, were hurriedly 
ejaculated in reply to Mrs, Jenkins, who begged to 
know if his tea was to his liking. Mr. Prose then 
continued, " It ought not to be spoken tamely, so if 
you will permit me, I will suit the action to the 
word. 

Prose (rising, stretching out one arm like a sign-post, 
and looking hard at Mrs. Jenkins and family 9 speaking 
after the most approved histrionic fashion, mouthing hts 
words, and lengthening the syllables). 

"Most po-tent, gra-a-ve, and very re-ve-rend si- 
ign-ors. 

Susan (officiously offering a plate). Do you take 
toast, or bread-and-butter, sir ? 

Prose (indignantly in his natural voice). Silence, 
woman ! (Proceeding in his professional manner.) 

g 2 



84 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

" That I have ta'en away this old ma-an's da- 
aughter 

It is most tr-rue ; tr-rue I have ma-ar-r-ried her. 

The very head and front of my offending 

Hath— 

Mrs. Jenkins. More coals, Susan. 

Prose (continuing with desperation). 

" this extent, no-o mo-re, &c. &c. 

&c. &c. &c. 
Yet by your gracious patience 

I will—" 

Mrs. Jenkins. Stir it, Susan. 

Subject to these repeated interruptions, Prose 
w r ent on, secretly chafing, until a hearty burst of 
laughter, in the most pathetic and beautiful part of 
the speech, utterly exhausted his patience. Abruptly 
shutting the book, he vented his displeasure in very 
decided terms, regretting that he should find so little 
sympathy and congeniality of taste in the family 
with which he hoped soon to be intimately con- 
nected. 

The dignity of Mrs. Jenkins and her daughters 
was highly offended. While the younger sisters 
hastily crammed into their work-baskets the shreds 
and patches which formed the material of their 
" industrious idleness" and rustled out of the room, 
a flood of indignant eloquence from the mother and 
eldest daughter was poured forth on the devoted 
head of Prose. Never before had he had an oppor- 
tunity of gaining such insight into the real cha- 



THE SHAKSPERIAN WOOER. 85 

racters of his intended wife and mother-in-law. 
Arabella spoke in the sharpest of tones. Mrs. Jen- 
kins quite forgot her company manner, and raised 
her voice into a cracked treble, which was pain- 
fully audible. He was told, first by one, then by 
the other, then several times by both together, that 
if he found their society wearisome, the compliment 
was mutual ; and he might go to those he liked 
better. Mr. Prose was the last man in the world to 
make head against this torrent of words from tw T o 
angry women. He took the ladies at their word, 
and retired hastily, with the conviction that u all 
was lost except honour." 

In order to account for this conduct of the Jen- 
kinses, it is necessary to state, that Miss Jenkins, 
ever since she had made the acquaintance of a 
young Irish lieutenant, then quartered in the town, 
had begun to think she might do better than marrv 
Prose. The next evening, then, Lieutenant Mooney 
was seated in Prose's chair, chattering away agree- 
able nothings, with all the easy impudence of his 
countrymen, making Mrs. Jenkins's heart to sing 
for joy as she built up redoubtable castles in the air 
for her eldest daughter, and causing each of the 
younger sisters to feel jealous of Arabella, as they 
thought of her engrossing such whiskers to herself. 

In the meantime how fared it with the rejected 
Prose? He was a sensible man, and had some 
refined tastes ; but sensible men often do very foolish 
things, especially when they have been crossed in 



86 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

love. Miss Arabella was certainly handsome, even 
if she was not literary ; and he had not bargained 
for being given up in so unceremonious a manner, 
Alas ! for Prose,, he had had little experience of 
the female heart. Perhaps he could have made up 
his mind to reject Miss Jenkins himself; but he 
did not like being rejected by her. At no time is a 
man more off his guard, and liable to make an impru- 
dent match, than just after undergoing a disappoint- 
ment like that experienced by our friend Prose. At 
such a time sympathy is doubly dear to us. If we 
are men of spirit, and have a proper self-respect, we 
will immediately prove to the foolish fair one the 
truth of these aphorisms : " That a man may marry 
when he chooses ; a woman when she can." " That 
there are as good fish in the sea as ever came out 
of it," &c. &c. — by going "right off," and marrying 
another young lady, instead of gratifying her whom 
we formerly vowed to be " the only object of our 
dearest, best, most lasting affections/' but whom we 
now know to be "a deceitful, heartless, capricious 
being, 55 " one with whom we never could have been 
happy, &c. &c." — by moping, or committing — suicide. 
It must have been in obedience to these immu- 
table principles of our nature that Mr. Prose carried 
his wrongs and his Shakspere into the bosom of 
another family, between whom and the Jenkinses, 
although they preserved all the externals of friend- 
ship, existed a species of private feud. The Prues, 
mother and daughter, lived just opposite the Jen- 



THE SHAKSPERIAN WOOER. 87 

kinses, and the fact is, Miss Clarissa Prue had 
long regarded with a good deal of envy the frequent 
visits paid by Mr. Prose to their neighbours. On 
that very evening on which Mr. Prose had received 
his conge, Miss Prue had watched him into the 
Jenkinses, and had expressed very decided and vir- 
tuous disapproval of the conduct of Miss Arabella 
Jenkins, in giving encouragement to so many dan- 
glers at once, " There's Mr. Prose, ma, and Mr. 
Flatt, and Mr. Green, and Mr. Hotcopper, and 
Lieutenant Mooney, and Ensign Sappy ; " and Miss 
Prue enumerated a long list, which we shall spare 
the reader. 

Imagine the astonishment of mother and daughter, 
when, after a somewhat nervous but energetic knock, 
the servant entered and announced that Mr. Prose 
was below, and desired to pay his respects to the 
ladies. It immediately darted into the mind of 
Mrs. Prue that Mr. Prose had been rejected, or had 
been asked his intentions, or in some way or other 
had got his dismissal from over the way, and had 
now come post-haste to offer his hand and heart 
(and, we may add, par parenthese, fortune) to her 
daughter. A hurried consultation took place between 
mother and daughter. 

" Well, but mamma, do you think I'd accept any 
one whom Arabella Jenkins had refused ?— only I 
don't believe he could have been so foolish as to 
propose to such a flirt." 

" Nonsense, child. What has that to do with it 



88 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

if he'd proposed to fifty women ? There, run away 
for a moment just to calm your spirits and arrange 
your hair, and you might slip on that becoming 
lilac dress, and just try and get a lee tie more colour 
into your sweet face." 

(Exit Miss Clarissa, like an obedient daughter.) 
Mrs. Prue had just time to open at random a large 
Shakspere which lay on a side-table (for she was 
well aware of Mr. Prose's mania), before that gen- 
tleman entered the room. 

" My dear Mr. Prose, how kind this visit is. We 
are so pleased when our gentleman-friends drop in 
of an evening, just in a quiet, sociable way." (By 
the way, this form of speech is surely superfluous. 
Who could be supposed desirous of seeing their gen- 
tleman-friends dropping in, in a noisy, unsociable 
way.) " Will you let me offer you a cup of tea ? " 
continued Mrs. Prue, rising to ring the bell. 

Inexpressibly sweet were these words of welcome 
to the lacerated heart of poor Prose, after the rude 
torrent of reproach to which he had been so lately 
exposed. It was to his spirit like pouring oil and 
wine into a corporeal wound. He bowed, and said 
he was particularly fond of tea. 

" It is an excellent trait in a young man's charac- 
ter to be fond of tea. Do you know, I always think 
that gentlemen who 'are fond of tea would make 
good husbands. Indeed, I may say I have always 
found it so in my experience. Such husbands always 
lead more domestic lives, and do not break their 



THE SHAKSPERIAN WOOER. 89 

poor wives' hearts with pipes and cigars, and late 
hours, and billiards, and bachelor-company." 

64 1 never smoke/ said Prose. " I've tried it, 
and it don't agree with me." 

"Not smoke!" repeated Mrs. Prue, holding up 
her hands with a pretty gesture of astonishment, 
although she was well aware of the fact. " Oh, that 
is so rare in young men now-a-days. Really, Mr. 
Prose, you are quite a pattern for the rising gene- 
ration." 

Mr. Prose suddenly became animated. He had 
observed the Shakspere lying open on the table. 

" The Swan of Avon, as I live." 

Mrs. Prue had not the most remote idea what 
the " Swan of Avon" meant ; but she knew by the 
direction of Mr. Prose's glance that he spoke of 
Shakspere. 

"Oh, yes, Shakspere. My daughter was just 
reading a little of that delighful— comedy — of — of — 
' Timon of Athens.' " 

" And open at ' Antony and Cleopatra,' — 6 All for 
love or the world well lost,' " exclaimed Prose, too 
much engrossed to perceive the discrepancy of Mrs. 
Prue's observation — " I trust I have not frightened 
Miss Prue away. Does — does she like Shakspere?" 

" Like is not the word," replied Mrs. Prue, " she 
positively doats on Shakspere. She would read him 
at three in the morning if I would let her : many 
and many a time have I been obliged to take away 
the dear girl's candle and say, K Clarissa, you will 



90 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

spoil your eyes really, if you persist in reading so 
much by candle-light, and that would be a sad pity 
you know, for your eyes are very much admired by 
the gentlemen ; and even if they were not, they are 
too useful to be spoiled/ Don't you agree with me, 
Mr. Prose ? " 

That speech did Mr. Prose's business. "Here," 
thought he, " I shall find that admiration of the 
immortal bard which I have hitherto sought in vain." 
His castle -building was interrupted by Mrs. Prue 
saying, " But here comes Clary to speak for herself." 
"My love," she added, as her daughter entered, 
" we are talking of Shakspere. I have been telling 
Mr. Prose how you doat on him." 

"Oh fie, mamma," said Clary, after making a 
charming inclination to the gentleman, " Mr. Prose 
will. think me quite a blue — " 

" Say, rather, a votary of the goddess Minerva," 
exclaimed the inspired Prose, "as dangerous to our 
sex from the acquired loveliness of mental accom- 
plishment as from natural beauty." Then taking up 
the Shakspere, he continued, " Notes, too I declare. 
In your own handwriting, may I ask ? " Miss Prue 
owned that they were. These commentaries, it must 
be confessed, were sufficiently terse, being nothing 
more than the words " Lovely — divine — enchanting 
— how true," &c, &c, generally written in the pro- 
per places, that is, the margin of the most admired 
passages. 

"Ah, this is the truest criticism," continued the 



THE SHAKSPERIAN WOOER. 91 

delighted Prose, "what more ought mortals to dare 
to write of Shakspere than the most simple, unquali- 
fied praise of his writings." 

" Oh, Mr. Prose," cried Clarissa, with the most 
interesting affectation of bashfulness, " pray, now 
don't read any more — you'll make me so ashamed of 
my humble annotations. They were drawn from 
me in moments of enthusiasm — when — when — I had 
no one near me to tell my thoughts to, no one — to 
sympathize with me — in — my admiration — of the 
author's genius." 

Carried away by this conjunction of circumstances, 
Mr. Prose immediately burst forth into the following 
fit of eloquence : — 

u Great heavens ! then my visit to-night was pro- 
vidential. You admire Shakspere — so do I. You 
pine for sympathy in reading him — so do I. I — I 
have been seeking all my life for some one to parti- 
cipate with me in this my favourite taste. Oh ! now 
that I have found her — my peerless one in thee — do 
not reject the homage of a true heart, of — of — a 
Shaksperian admirer ! Do not cast me back again 
into the cold unfeeling world — into the Sahara of 
uncongenial matter-of-fact people. Be mine, beau- 
tiful, accomplished Clarissa. Let us unite our des- 
tinies ; let us devote the remainder of our lives to 
one sole occupation, one pursuit — I don't mean 
literally do nothing else, but let us read the immortal 
poet together at every available opportunity;" and 
Mr. Prose wound up by sinking on his knees before 



92 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

Miss Prue, little thinking that it needed not his 
eloquence to make him an eligible suitor in the eyes 
of the daughter or the mamma. - 

Clarissa, however, played her part to admiration. 
She appeared violently shocked at the proposal of 
marriage, and could only gasp out, " Mamma, 
mamma, speak for me. I feel so faint. I — I — " 

Mrs. Prue flew to the support of her daughter in 
two ways — she sustained her drooping figure, and she 
spoke for her. " I will, child ! I will ! " she said. 
" It is a mother's privilege, her duty. Mr. Prose, 
read in the agitation, the silence of my daughter, the 
only consent which a dear, unsophisticated girl — a 
well- educated, right-thinking young lady, can give 
to such a proposition. I, as her mother, sanction it ; 
rise up her accepted lover, and my son." 

Mr. Prose jumped up, and in his agitation em- 
braced Mrs. Prue first before her daughter. After, 
however, he had remedied his mistake, and trans- 
ferred the warmth of his feelings to Clarissa, such 
was the fulness of his heart, that he could only 
strike an attitude with that young lady reclining 
against his manly breast, and exclaim, in the words 
of his favourite author, — 

4 ' If it were now to die, 
'Twere now to be most happy." 



Mr. Prose took the earliest opportunity of para- 
ding his young bride in triumph pass the well- 



THE SHAKSPERIAN WOOER. 93 

known bow-window of the Jenkinses, where, behind 
the heavy curtain, Arabella sat flirting with the 
handsome Lieutenant. The slightest possible shade 
passed over the features of Miss Jenkins, but her 
eye reverted, by the force of habit, to the large pier 
glass which hung so conveniently opposite. She 
saw at a glance that Mr. Prose was not half so 
handsome as herself, and resumed her flirting with 
renewed vigour. The fond mother watched her 
own daughter with maternal pride. " Let me see, 
Arabella, is not Thursday your birthday?" 

" Yes, ma," replied Arabella. 

" I shall give you and Edward a party on that 
day." 

It was intended, and fully anticipated both by 
mother and daughter, that Edward (for by this 
familiar appellation they already designated the 
fascinating Irishman) should propose on that day. 

He had now been intimate with the family six 
weeks. Miss Arabella had grown accustomed to 
the support of his manly arm in the w T altz and 
polka ; and, indeed, at other times it had a knack of 
slipping round her waist as they sat on the sofa 
tete-a-tete. Everybody said that Lieutenant Mooney 
and Miss Jenkins were engaged, and shortly to be 
married. Yet still the Lieutenant had not proposed. 
The appointed evening came and passed, and Mr. 
Mooney danced every dance with Miss Jenkins. 
But in vain did the mother telegraph the important 
question to her daughter. The downcast, unsatisfied 



94 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

looks of the latter said plainly " He has not pro- 
posed." After the ball was over, Arabella sobbed 
herself to sleep. 

u This will never do/' said Mrs. Jenkins ; " I will 
ask him his intentions the very next time I see him, 
and that will be to-morrow." 

The morrow came, and the Lieutenant did not 
appear. He seemed to have an inkling of what was 
in store for him. On the next day as mother and 
daughter were seated at their usual observatory, the 
bow-window, the following conversation took place. 

Arabella. Well, but mamma, I really love Lieu- 
tenant Mooney, and you yourself was as willing as I 
was to get rid of that hateful Prose. After all, the 
more I think of matrimony the more necessary a 
little love seems. Gracious I only to think of choos- 
ing one man from all the world to be happy with for 
ever and ever. 

Mrs. Jenkins, Exactly what I said to your poor 
dear father, my love, when, with all the unreason- 
ableness of men, he used to complain that I never 
received him alike two days running. He said I 
stood shilly-shally and played with his feelings. 
'Good gracious,' said I to your poor dear father — I 
remember it as well as if it was yesterday — ? are we 
poor women never to recall our words, or change our 
sentiments ? What tyranny ! Are words, which are 
but breath, as the Rev. Dr. Faddle told us in his 
sermon only last Sunday — are words mere breath, 
uttered in the impulse of the moment to bind us for 



THE SHAKSPERIAX WOOER. 95 

ever ? ' I shall never forget what a rage your poor 
dear father got into, when I said I really must 
retract the promise of love I had given him that 
morning. But as I was going to say, my darling, it 
is you who are going to live with your future 
husband, not me; therefore, you are certainly the 
best judge of your own happiness. I'm sure there's 
not a day passes that I don't feel thankful that I 
have done with marriage ever since I lost your poor 
dear father. I never wish to become the slave of 
another man, or the victim of his tyranny and 
caprice ; and so, if you really think you prefer Lieu- 
tenant Mooney, well and good; but remember, I 
I think you have been premature in breaking with 
all your other admirers. What a levee you had to 
be sure, and how astonished Mr. Green and Mr. 
Flatt were ; and how rude Mr. Hotcopper was. 

Arabella. Oh ! don't bother so, ma. I'm sick of 
their very names. 

Mrs. Jenkins. Well, but my dearest girl, consider, 
you haven't left yourself one single suitor to fall back 
upon. You remember, love, I said I thought it 
premature dismissing all your admirers. 

Arabella. You said nothing of the sort, mamma ; 
but that's always the way with you — blowing hot 
and cold. 

Mrs. Jenkins, The very taunt your poor dear 
father used to throw up to me so often. And 
though I was obliged to bear it from him, it's really 
too bad to hear it from my own daughter. Once 



96 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

more I say,, in case the Lieutenant, after all his 
dangling, should not propose — and it looks very like it. 

Arabella {almost crying with vexation). Ma, you'll 
make me hate you if you go on in that cold-blooded 
way. I tell you he must and shall propose ; for I 
love him, and he loves me. Yes ; I know he loves 
me truly ; and who could help loving such a dear, 
delightful duck of a man, so tall, and with such a 
soft insinuating voice, and— 

Mrs. Jenkins (ironically). With such red whiskers. 

Arabella. His whiskers aren't a bit redder than a 
man's whiskers ought to be ; and — oh — oh — oh ! 

" What's the matter my love," exclaimed Mrs. 
Jenkins, for Arabella had all at once screamed out 
and turned very pale. 

" Oh, look there ; only look there," cried Arabella, 
pointing out into the street. 

Mrs. Jenkins looked in the indicated direction, 
and then the cause of her daughter's uneasiness was 
no longer a mystery. For there, in the open street, 
was Lieutenant Mooney, bodily walking past Mrs. 
Jenkins's house, with a young lady leaning on his 
arm, to whom he appeared to be talking confiden- 
tially, familiarly, ay, even tenderly ; and the lady 
was looking up into his handsome Hibernian features 
with an expression of pleasure and trusting affection 
which could not be mistaken. 

" Who is the creature?" exclaimed Mrs. Jenkins, 
when she could speak for astonishment and rage ; 
u any one we know ?" 



THE SHAKSPERIAN WOOER. 97 

" No, mamma, it's a perfect stranger. Oh ! the 
wretch ! the monster !" 

"Perhaps — perhaps" suggested Mrs. Jenkins, 
u She's his sister." 

" No, no, 'ma, he's got no sister ; he told me so at 
the ball the night before last. Oh— oh — oh — oh!" 

The last rays of hope had disappeared, and both 
mother and daughter proceeded immediately to go 
into hysterics, after the most approved fashion with 
ladies when any sudden cause of trouble arises. 
Arabella fell on the sofa, Mrs. Jenkins into an arm- 
chair. 

The faithful Susan rushed hastily into the room. 
" Oh, Miss ; oh Marm ; what ever is the matter ? 
what is it ? Oh ! sich a turn as them 'ere screeches 
give me. Which is it that's took bad ? Oh, I declare 
if it isn't both on 'em at oncet ; " and Susan hovered 
in a distracted state between the sofa and the arm- 
chair, uncertain whom to attend on first. 

From the sofa certain indistinct sounds were heard, 
which resembled the words " Mooney, Mooney." 
From the arm-chair groans which seemed to denote 
to the practised ears of Susan that her mistress was 
suffering from cramps in the stomach, a complaint to 
which Mrs. Jenkins was very subject, and for which 
there was no cure, but a small dose of brandy in its 
unadulterated state. 

" Please, Miss," said Susan, answering her young 
mistress first, "Isor him" (meaning Mooney) "jist 
now a gal^antm' with another lady; and, indeed 

H 



98 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

Miss, I wouldn't take on so," continued the kind- 
hearted Susan, almost crying herself from sympathy, 
"he's jist like all the men, for they're all alike, and 
none of 'em worth it." 

Susan had not further time to elucidate what she 
meant by these somewhat incoherent remarks, for 
she now rushed to the arm-chair. " Yes, mum, is it 
them nasty cramps agin, mum ? Will you jist try 
and swallor a thimbleful of brandy, mum ? you 
knows it always cures 'em. I know where the 
bottle is, mum ; I'll run and fetch it d'recly." 

" Stay, stay, Susan, stay," said the sufferer ; I 
think — I'm almost sure the bottle's empty. You 
must run round the corner to Dickson's, and be 
sure you say it's for illness ; and don't let the Prues 
see you going into the public-house, if you can help 
it ; and — and make haste, Susan, I feel as if I'd be 
dead before you come back." 

Susan was not long gone, and returned breathless 
to say that Lieutenant Mooney had met her at the 
door, and was just coming up stairs, and this intelli- 
gence was confirmed by the sound of the gallant 
officer's sword jingling, according to custom, against 
each step as he ascended. In a moment the ladies 
appeared miraculously recovered. Arabella bounded 
off the sofa and took refuge in another room, and 
Mrs. Jenkins, suddenly forgetting the cramps, sat 
up in her arm-chair, and prepared to receive the 
Lieutenant with severe dignity. 

Lieutenant Mooney entered as if nothing had 



THE SHAKSPERIAN WOOER. 99 

happened, and inquired after Arabella, in his usual 
cool and easy manner, saying he intended to have 
called the day before, but for a pressing engage- 
ment. 

" May I inquire, sir," said Mrs. Jenkins, with 
difficulty restraining her temper, "if it had anything 
to do with the lady whom you took past my house 
half-an-hour ago." 

"Faith, and ye've guessed it, my dear Madam," 
said the unabashed Mooney. 

" Have I, sir ; and you, sir, may I ask, are you 
not ashamed to — to refer to it ? " 

" My dear good lady, what do ye mane ? " 

u Mean, sir ? What do I mean ? Why, to ask 
you, sir, what your intentions are to my daughter ; 
and to say, that if you have the feelings of a man, 
you'll apologize for the gross indelicacy of your 
conduct, and the insult you have inflicted on her 
feelings by passing the window just now with another 
lady hanging on your arm." 

K Arrah, madam ! " replied the lieutenant, with 
matchless effrontery ; " why do ye single me out to 
ask my intentions ? Am I the cnly officer who visits 
at this house ? Isn't there Captain Blazer, and Ensign 
Sappy, and a whole host of civilians ? Why don't 
ye ask them what their intentions are ? " 

" Come, come, Mr. Mooney," said Mrs. Jenkins, 
growing excessively angry, "this assumed simplicity 
won't serve your turn. You know as well as I do 
that Arabella has turned away Mr. Prose, Mr. Flatt, 

h 2 



100 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

Mr, Hotcopper, and several more very eligible suitors ; 
and I, sir/ 5 continued Mrs. Jenkins, drawing herself 
up, and speaking in a very pompous tone, " I have a 
duty to perform as a mother, and I insist, yes, I 
insist upon knowing what you meant by taking 
another young lady past our house, after the atten- 
tions you have been paying to Arabella, and the 
interest which you know you have created in her 
susceptible heart." 

" Faith, and Fm very sorry for the intherest I've 
created in her susceptible harrut then." 

" Sorry, sir ; you don't look as if you were sorry." 
And the lieutenant certainly did not, or the subdued 
smirk lurking at the corners of his mouth belied him 
greatly. His demeanour surpassed all that Mrs. 
Jenkins had heard of Hibernian impudence. " Come 
sir, have you been imposing upon us, and playing 
with the feelings of that trusting angel — my 
daughter. I insist upon knowing who that lady was." 

" Ye insist upon knowing ? " 

" Yes, sir ; I insist upon knowing." 

Oeh, well ! if ye insist upon knowing, why — ? tis 
soon told. u That lady — " here the lieutenant 
paused. 

" Well, sir, go on ; that lady — ." 

" Whom I took past your house just now ? " 

" Whom you took past the house just now." 

" Well, then ; that— lady is—." 

" Yes; who is she?" exclaimed Mrs. Jenkins, in 
a fever of curiosity. 



THE SHAKSPERIAN WOOER, 101 

" My wife ! " replied the lieutenant, with the 
utmost nonchalance, " and I just called to say that, 
now she's come. I can't be a gay bachelor any more, 
and I'm afraid I can't have the pleasure of attending 
30 many of your jolly parties." 

Let us draw a veil over what passed in the 
Jenkins's house that evening. Far be it from us to 
say why there was such a smell of burnt feathers 
and sal volatile, and why Susan was seen so often 
rushing breathlessly round the corner with a small 
bottle in her hand. Our own private opinion is that 
never had Miss Jenkins experienced a more sincere 
bona fide fit of hysterics, and never had Mrs. Jenkins 
suffered from a more powerful, long-sustained, and 
obstinate attack of cramps in the stomach. 

Alas! it was too true. Too late, Mrs. and Miss 
Jenkins recollected that, on first making the acquaint- 
ance of the lieutenant, they had occasionally heard 
him speak of a Mrs. Mooney ; but, as he had generally 
introduced the name in connexion with " his grand- 
motlier," and coupled it with sundry grins, and 
shrugs of the shoulders, and humorous distortions 
of his features, they had either confounded it with 
the aforesaid relative, or fancied that he spoke of 
some fabulous wife in jest. Lieutenant Mooney had 
thought it a capital joke for a married man to engross 
a young lady so renowned as Miss Jenkins was for her 
numerous flirtations, and won an incredible number 
of bottles of champagne on the wager he had laid at 
the mess-table, that he would succeed in imposing 



102 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

himself on the fair Arabella as an eligible matri- 
monial match, provided none of his brother officers 
peached as to the real state of things. 

As for Miss Jenkins, she deserved and profited by 
the severe lesson she had received. With respect to 
Mr. Prose, it is a painful fact, but truth compels us 
to state that his marriage did not exactly fulfil his 
expectations. His wife's literary tastes did not 
appear by any means in the same light after as they 
had done before marriage. He has now reason to 
believe that Mrs. Prose is not passionately fond of 
Shakspere, and that she is not within a great many 
shades of being a blue. He feels that he has neither 
made himself nor his wife happy, and that he has 
failed in his laudable attempt to make Miss Jenkins 
miserable ; for that young lady has quite recovered 
from the effects of the ruse practised by the lieutenant, 
laughs at Mr, and Mrs. Prose, and is now said to 
be engaged to another officer, who is veritably an 
unmarried man. 

Moral: Young ladies, — Be sincere in your love 
affairs, and beware how you sport with the best 
feelings of human nature, lest you in your turn be 
made victims to flirtation. 

Young gentlemen, — Lay this to heart, that marriage 
is too serious a condition to be embraced in a fit of 
pique or disappointment, or from motives of revenge 
on a third party* * 



103 



WINTER-TRAVELLING IN CANADA. 



u Vides, lit alta stet nive candidum 
Soracte : nee jam sustineant onus 
Sylvae laborantes, geluque 
Flumina constiterint acuto 1 " 

Horace, Ode ix. 

It is an erroneous idea of a Canadian winter which 
represents the " the natives/' for six or seven months 
of the year, ice-bound and snowed-up, cowering 
over their stoves, In truth, to the young and all 
those enjoying good health and capable of taking 
out-door exercise, this is the gayest and most genial 
portion of the year. 

AYith the freezing of the rivers commences a 
species of carnival. Between this period and that 
of the breaking up in spring, the farmers especially 
make holiday, and after the day's work of hauling 
from the forest the wood for the ensuing summer's 
consumption, they have little else to do but engage 
in merry-makings and junketings, and keep them- 
selves comfortable in their snug homes, which, by the 
aid of large wood fires and hall stoves, are often too 
warm. 

It may hardly seem necessary to describe a sleigh. 
Let, then, the initiated excuse this slight sketch 
intended for the benefit of the totally unsophisticated 



104 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

reader. It is simply a carriage with the tires of the 
wheels flattened out into runners. The sleigh in 
Canada corresponds with the carriage ; the sled is a 
much humbler vehicle, analogous to the cart or 
waggon. There is a great variety in the fashions of 
sleighs, from the clumsy shapeless family sleigh 
(often only a box covered with furs, and placed on 
runners), to the light and airy cariole. A well- 
appointed sleigh and pair of horses, or, as it is called, 
a double sleigh, is a very imposing affair. The sleigh 
itself, often of a very elegant shape, the runners rising 
high in front and curving gracefully, the front seat 
considerably elevated, and richly dressed with the 
skins of the bear, buffalo, wolf, tiger, panther, &c, 
forms a picture suggestive of pleasure and comfort ; 
while the horses tossing their heads and jingling 
their bells, which are either attached to their necks, 
or in a girth round the body, or at various parts of 
the harness, appear to enjoy the task of drawing the 
light vehicle over the snow. 

In most of the garrison towns of Canada, and 
British North America generally, sleighing-clubs are 
formed, and it is a beautiful sight to see from a dozen 
to twenty sleighs sweep by in succession, some 
driving tandem, others four in hand, while the 
enlivening notes of the key-bugle awaken the echoes, 
and those who have mingled in such excursions can 
alone appreciate the exhilarating effects of the rapid 
motion, and the keen clear bracing air in raising the 
spirits. Doubtless, many a match between the 



WINTER-TRAVELLING IN CANADA. 105 

Canadian belles and their military admirers owes its 
origin to those golden opportunities. 

The true enjoyment of sleighing is, perhaps, best 
experienced in making a journey ; for, to the novelty 
of this mode of travelling to a stranger, are joined 
the gratifying emotions inspired by nature in her 
wintry garb. The stages, as the public conveyances 
are called, are of two kinds, — open and covered, and 
it depends on the state of the roads and the weather 
in which you travel. If you express any feeling 
of disappointment on finding that you are to be 
exposed for the greater part of the day in an open 
sleigh, the driver will, probably, shrug his shoulders, 
deprecatory of your ignorance of matters and things 
in general in a new country, and "guess that with 
them heavy roads you might as w r ell tackle up a 
meeting-house as a covered sleigh. " 

The town or village from which you start is soon 
left behind, and the horses, as they warm to their work, 
fall into a steady trot. The road or beaten track 
narrows to a path, the exact width of the sleigh. If 
there has been no fall of snow lately, it is compact 
and easy to travel, though on each side the snow 
may be two feet deep or more. The only difficulty 
occurs when it is necessary to pass another sleigh. 
This is an undertaking of some nicety. Both 
drivers slacken their speed and begin to draw off to 
the right, and not to the left, as in England, each 
taking his exact half of the road to an inch. Down 
goes one of your horses half-buried in the snow. The 



106 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

sleigh is tilted over to such an angle that you think 
it must upset. And if it did, it would be only a 
harmless turn-over into the soft snow, unaccom- 
panied by any risk ; but the horse is an "old stager" 
in the most literal sense. He is used to it, and 
neither kicks nor plunges, and in a few seconds you 
are once more upon the beaten track, and scudding 
onwarde If the snow is at all soft, or moist, the 
driver gets out occasionally, and with a little 
hammer which he carries for the purpose, knocks 
out the hard balls which form in the cavity of the 
horses' shoes. 

If the country through which you travel be, in 
provincial parlance, "settled 77 or "cleared" your eye 
roams over vast fields of snow covered with a crust 
(the result of frost after thaw) which sparkles in the 
sun-beams, as if it were set with precious stones. 
The hard-wood trees, for the same reason, assume 
an appearance of magical beauty. Trunk, branch, 
and twig, even to the most minute tendril, are covered 
with a delicate cuticle of ice, through which the 
rays of the sun are transflected in the most brilliant 
prismatic hues.* This is one of nature's most 
gorgeous effects in these trans-Atlantic climes, and 
once seen can never be forgotten. 

And now you leave the settled country and enter 
the forest — the wild American forest. The road 
winds, a white streak, now, through a wilderness of 

* See, for a fine description of this phenomenon, M The Old 
Judge, or Life in a Colony," by Judge Haliburton. 






WINTER-TRAVELLING IN CANADA. 107 

hard-wood trees, whose naked branches permit the 
eye to penetrate for some distance into the gloom, 
now, through the rich green of the soft-wood species — 
the pine, the fir, the hemlock, the cedar, the tamarac, 
&c.* It is monotonous, but beautiful. Here is 
solitude profound, unbroken, save by the gentle 
tinkle of the horses' bells, the cry of a blue-jay, or 
the chirrup of a squirrel. It induces to cheerful 
musing, this pleasant onward noiselessly-gliding pro- 
gress through the still solemn forest, as you nestle 
closely under your furs, and lazily upturn your face 
to the grateful sunshine — when suddenly your day- 
dream is interrupted by the report of a rifle echoing 
far and wide in the hushed wilderness — the horses 
prick up their ears, the dozing driver suddenly pulls 
up and listens; presently, a crashing of branches 
and cracking of the snow-crust is heard, and there, 
just fifty yards in advance, a large animal, with its 
huge head elevated so as to lay its gigantic antlers 
almost flat on its back, breaks cover, and crosses the 
road at a bound. 

" A moose," cries the driver, somewhat excited 
from his usual apathy. " I guess that critter won't 
run much farther." 

A confused yelping of curs announces the ap- 
proach of the hunters ; and two Indians running 
fleetly on snow-shoes appear and vanish like a dream. 
The driver is right : a trace of blood showing 

* "The stern, inexorable fir-tribes alone maintain their 
eternal sombre green." — McGregor's British America. 



108 GKINS AND WRINKLES. 

brightly on the white snow, tells that the game is 
already wounded, and ere long the report of another 
shot informs you that in all probability the fate of 
the gallant moose is sealed. 

Another event is a stoppage in your journey, 
owin«; to a tree having fallen across the road. But 
for this the driver is likewise prepared. He gets out, 
and by the aid of an axe which he carries in readi- 
ness for such emergencies, and another, wielded by 
an obliging settler, who has a cabin or log-house 
hard by, the difficulty is removed, and on you go. 
You think the stages terribly long,, twenty miles 
each. You enter the plain farm-house, which serves 
for inn, and partake of some simple speedily- dressed 
dish, such as eggs-and-bacon and a cup of tea (a 
handmaiden standing by to replenish your cup), the 
usual beverage in the country, with an excellent 
appetite, the fruit of your exposure to the wintry 
air. Your driver sits down at the table w r ith you, 
and discovers more decorum and respect than you 
had augured from the first impressions made by his 
familiarity. You swallow a dram, a most excusable 
luxury under the circumstances, and take your 
place again under the warm furs in the sleigh. 

As evening draws on the trees assume strange, 
shadowy, and indistinct forms; and it requires no 
great stretch of imagination to fancy them gigantic 
figures imbued with life, and stretching their arms, 
as if beckoning towards the traveller. When you 
are tired of reverie (though if you are of a contem- 



WINTER-TRAVELLING IN CANADA. 109 

plative, castle-building disposition, there is hardly a 
situation in which you can surrender yourself with 
more delightful abandon to dreamland, than thus 
gliding lazily at twilight through the mazes of an 
American forest, warm and comfortable, while the 
snow-laden trees around tell of winter's stern inexo- 
rable reign), you can encourage the communicative 
propensities of your driver, who will entertain you 
with stories of hunting, of perilous adventures with 
Indians, w T olves, &c. ; and perhaps point carelessly to 
a spot by the roadside where he once encountered an 
old bear, who sat up on his hind legs, and watched 
him as he drove past. 

So much for one kind of winter travelling ; but 
there is another by no means so agreeable. How- 
ever pleasant it is to journey in a comfortable warm 
sleigh, wrapped up in buffalo -robes, it is quite 
another thing to proceed in an open and loaded 
"sled" during inclement weather. A friend of ours, 
who has a thriving farm in the Townships, once 
persuaded us to essay this mode of travel, and it 
formed an era in our winter experience, which we 
shall not easily forget. We left Montreal early, 
and cut across the broad St. Lawrence, in a diagonal 
direction to La Prairie, a distance of nine miles 
across ice frozen generally to the thickness of two feet. 
The roads over the rivers are marked out by small 
fir-trees, stuck into the ice at short intervals, and 
here and there shanties, or wooden huts, are erected 



110 GRINS AKD WRINKLES. 

where people make a living by watering horses and 
selling spirits to travellers* 

The French country is flat and uninteresting, the 
roads being lined with poor white-washed cottages, at 
such short distances as to present, the whole way, 
the appearance of a straggling village. So perfectly 
alike are these dwellings, that the traveller might 
sleep for twenty miles, and not know on waking 
that he had advanced a rod. 

As we sat perched up on the top of our baggage, 
freight, &c, the keen searching wind pinched our 
noses and ears, penetrated through all our wraps, 
and occasionally left us in doubt whether we pos- 
sessed any hands and feet, so perfectly benumbed 
were those extremities ; and the only way by which 
circulation could be restored, w r as by getting down 
and running for some distance. Yet we cannot 
deny that it appeared worth while undergoing this 
severe degree of cold, in order fully to appreciate 
the otherwise incalculable luxury of growing warm, 
when we stopped at the end of a stage, every nine 
miles, and hurried nearly dead with cold into the 
genial temperature of the bar-room. As to going 
near the fire or stove, under such circumstances, it 
is impossible. The instant you are under shelter, 
the change from cold to heat makes itself felt almost 
too suddenly at first to be pleasant, and it is only by 
immediately divesting yourself of your wraps, and 
by degrees only approaching the fire, that you can 



WINTER-TRAVELLING IK CANADA. Ill 

properly enjoy the change ; and then what a luxury 
to feel the genial warmth creeping over you, per- 
meating the veins, and causing the agreeable relax- 
ation which such a respite inspires. 

What a stock of caloric did we lay in at such 
places, and how carefully did we muffle ourselves 
before leaving the hospitable shelter, and venturing 
again sub Jove frigido. For the first mile or two we 
could defy the enemy, bat gradually Jack Frost 
began again to insinuate himself through our de- 
fences, and having effected a lodgment to make 
rapid progress, and laugh to scorn our attempts to 
repel him. Then how anxiously, as we approached 
the end of the stage, did we strain our eyes to catch 
the first glimpse of our haven of refuge, the uncouth 
looking country inn, more beautiful in our eyes than 
the most picturesque chateau, for we knew that we 
would be welcomed and made much of; with what 
thankfulness did we greet its appearance, and how 
eagerlv did we rush as;ain to thaw our half-frozen 
limbs in the grateful shelter. 

But cold was not our only enemy. We had other 
obstacles to contend with. In some places the track 
was nearly obliterated by snow-drifts, and it required 
no little skill on the part of the driver to preserve 
the middle of the road, and avoid the deep ditches 
on each side which abound in the French country. 
The horses, taught by experience to dread the deep 
snow T , shoved against each other, in their attempts to 
keep a firm footing ; or, in technical phrase, crowded 



112 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

so, that our progress was necessarily very slow. 
And when we encountered another team, it would 
have been amusing if it had not been a matter of 
such moment to ourselves, to watch the jealous fear 
displayed by the driver of yielding an inch more of 
the road than was lawful, For when a loaded sled 
gets embedded in the snow, the horses are often 
injured in their attempts to extricate it. Once we 
stuck so fast, that we were obliged to unyoke our 
horses, and substitute a pair of oxen, whose superior 
strength once more placed us on the beaten track. 

We had several times regretted our rashness in 
exposing ourselves to such hardships, when we 
might have travelled securely and comfortably in 
the regular stage. But we did not destroy our 
friend's peace of mind by giving utterance to our 
feelings, nor disturb the placid delusion under which 
he laboured, that we must be enjoying ourselves 
exceedingly, while he launched forth into praises of 
his sled, horses, harness, &c, remarking that he had 
not met a team on the road equally robust. Yet 
when the day's journey was over, and we were 
ensconced in a comfortable inn, we did indeed ac- 
knowledge that the luxury of such rest had been 
cheaply purchased, even by such real miseries. 

How shall we convey to the reader our agreeable 
sensations, the calm which stole over our spirit, when 
after having partaken of a plentiful repast which 
might be called either dinner, tea, or supper, since it 
partook equally of the nature of all three respec- 



WINTER-TRAVELLING IN CANADA. 113 

lively, we sat round a blazing fire, our weary feet 
ensconced in slippers, every muscle relaxed, and 
with that delightful feeling of drowsy consciousness 
which attends long exposure to the cold. As w r e sit 
thus enjoying a pipe and a glass of grog, listening to 
some long-winded story, told by the landlord, of 
some memorable snow-storm, the exact date of 
which he is as particular to demonstrate as though 
it were an important political or historical event 
(but which we do not recollect), when he drove 
through a snow-drift of such surprising depth, that 
he could but just see the tips of his horse's ears. As 
we sit thus, gentle reader, listening to the mono- 
tonous humming of the landlord's voice, and sleepily 
gazing at the crackling faggots, w T e fancy that it is 
impossible to arrive at a more vivid enjoyment of 
the dolcefar niente. 

At length repeated nods and short excursions into 
dream-land — during w T hich we have become utterly 
oblivious, not only of the story, but of the landlord 
himself, though in our intervals of consciousness we 
know that he is talking on, either calmly resigned to 
our inattention, or too much wrapped up in the 
interest of his tale (which he has told so often as 
probably to believe in himself) to heed it — warn us 
that it is time to quit the huge blazing fire for a 
comfortable bed, and such a sound slumber as only 
attends such a day of "Winter-travelling in Canada.'"' 



114 



THE UNKEMABKABLE FEMALE. 



u Thou art gone from my gaze 
Like a beautiful dream." 

Almost everybody who has dwelt long in a small 
town has had some individual who stood toward him 
or her in the same light as Mrs Frump did to us 5 
viz., who possesses the peculiarity of being associated 
with our earliest recollections, and whose presence 
(from passing frequently before our eyes without 
exciting any particular train of thought, except the 
vague idea which we attach to any familiar senseless 
object) we never notice, but whose absence would be 
immediately felt. Such had been the secret tie 
which had bound Mrs. Frump and ourself together 
for many years ; a tie, the force of whose mysterious 
influence we knew not, until it was rudely and 
abruptly severed for ever. 

It is hard in describing Mrs. Frump to refrain 
from paradox. Now that she has passed away from 
our gaze, and we are, therefore, in a measure, called 
upon to build up, again in thought what was once a 
real actual presence ; to embalm her, so to speak, to 
give her a regal monument in the pyramid of memory, 
we should define her as a being — let us say at once 
a woman (for we do not desire to affect unnecessary 



THE UNREMARKABLE FEMALE. 115 

mystery)— so exquisitely devoid of all character as 
to be on that very account eminently characte- 
ristic. Had we been asked suddenly by a curious 
stranger to give some definite idea of Mrs. Frump, 
we believe we should have replied promptly, that her 
most remarkable peculiarity was living in the house 
at the corner. 

It was a peculiarity of " Chevy Sly me " that he 
was always " round the corner," and it was perhaps 
the most striking and salient feature respecting Mrs. 
Frump, considered in a moral and mental point of 
view, that she had always lived in that identical 
corner-house. Even as the Greeks represented eter- 
nity by a serpent endeavouring to swallow his own 
tail, so did Mrs. Frump appear to us an emblem of 
a changeless routine of existence. We never could 
discern any alteration in her appearance from the 
time when she first dawned upon our boyhood ten 
years ago. We know we must have seen her for the 
first time, but we can recall no such era. To us she 
had always existed. 

We never doubted that the " oldest inhabitant " 
recollected her living in the same corner-house, and 
walking about in pattens, with the same coal-scuttle 
bonnet and green gingham umbrella. The idea of 
numbering her years never occurred to us. She 
could not be under forty, she might be fifty, pos- 
sibly more. Had she ever been young ? would she 
ever grow very old ? were thoughts which may have 
dimly presented themselves, as the coal-scuttle bon- 

i 2 



116 GKIKS AND WRINKLES. 

net and the green gingham umbrella came into view 
(as things which had always been, and would always 
continue to be, essential accessories of existence, 
periodical phenomena, like the recurrence of the 
seasons, to which, from habit, we grow indifferent), 
but which we desired not to solve any more than to 
decide to a day the age of an Egyptian priestess- 
mummy in the British Museum. Why should we 
now press the inquiry ? Thus the reader may com- 
prehend what a strange mixture of the shadowy 
ideal with palpable reality was Mrs. Frump to us. 

To convey a correct idea of her personal appear- 
ance we feel to be equally impossible. We can cer- 
tainly adapt the language of Enobarbus in describing 
Cleopatra : — 

" For her own person 
It beggared all description," 

Though not assuredly for the same reason. Mrs, 
Frump was not beautiful. So far we can speak 
positively. We cannot rush into the opposite 
extreme, and pronounce her plain, since this would 
be to imply a tendency to character or expression of 
some kind in her fece, which was indeed a sealed 
book in this respect ; one of those faces which we 
are always seeing and never can remember — -a face 
w T hich would have driven the artist who attempted 
to paint it, to despair, a face which nullifies all 
attempts to particularize, beyond the vague admis- 
sion that it possessed a nose, mouth, and two eyes. 
Further detail is impossible. 



THE UNREMARKABLE FEMALE. 117 

A$ for her person, it was neither stout nor thin, 
short nor tall. The main features of her costume 
have been already mentioned. We have a faint 
recollection of a black bombazeen dress, made after 
no fashion extant, which left a vague impression on 
the mind that Mrs, Frump had been at one time 
married, and was now a widow. Indeed, we have 
since recollected there were rumours that the oldest 
inhabitant remembered her husband, and had even 
known him when he occupied the corner-house in 
which his relict now resided. What sort of a man 
had been the late Mr. Frump? had he been of a 
convivial turn, the possessor of a latch-key, or a 
domestic husband? had he ruled his w T ife, or she 
him? had he been happy in his matrimonial expe- 
rience, or had he died weary of life spent with so 
unremarkable a female ? Such ideas were, however, 
painful, since they disturbed the hitherto classical 
repose in which Mrs. Frump had rested. It was 
unsatisfactory to think of her as having ever had 
another name, or sinking her independence in the 
authority of a husband. We found it difficult and 
distracting to associate the idea of Mrs. Frump as 
we saw her, inseparably connected with the black 
bombazeen dress, coal-scuttle bonnet, umbrella, and 
pattens, with that of a young virgin w T ith a white 
veil and orange-blossoms. 

For years, then, there had been growing up in 
our bosom, not the less surely because unconsciously 
to ourself, a feeling of strong, deep, chivalrous, pla- 



118 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

tonic attachment toward Mrs. Frump ; an attach- 
ment which the slightest breath of scandal dared not 
impugn, seeing that it was confined to our breast 
alone, and that Mrs. Frump herself was as guiltless 
of even knowing it as the far-famed Dulcinea del 
Toboso of the fierce flame which consumed the 
Knight of La Mancha. Under these circumstances, 
the reader will imagine our painful surprise when 
calling one day on our amusing and satirical young 
lady-friend, Miss Quizwel, she said, apropos to 
nothing, " Have you heard the news, that your 
neighbour, Mrs. Frump, is going to be married ?" 

Never until this moment, when we heard that we 
were about to lose her for ever, had we felt or 
appreciated the depth of our platonic attachment to 
the characterless Mrs. Frump. We had grown so 
accustomed to her appearances and disappearances 
from and into the corner-house, the frequent casual 
and transient glimpses of the black bombazeen dress, 
the coal-scuttle bonnet, the green gingham umbrella, 
and the pattens, that her continuance in that locality 
had come to be considered as a thing of course, as a 
destiny, a necessity. And now we heard that those 
fond ties and associations were to be broken up. 
The glory was to depart from the corner-house. 
From henceforth we were to learn to disconnect it 
from the idea of Mrs. Frump Could it be done? 

So sudden had been the shock of this intelligence 
that we were too overwhelmed to ask Miss Quizwel 
the name of the man (our unconscious rival) who 



THE UNREMARKABLE FEMALE. 119 

was to bring this desolation upon the corner-house 
and rob us of — -Mrs. Frump. However, rumour 
soon informed us. The man's name was Crump. 
Our bereaved heart derived some consolation in 
reflecting the pair must have been formed for each 
other ; and after all, we reflected, if he can make her 
happy, why should she not marry him ? We only 
loved her with a platonic love. One thing w^as cer- 
tain, " she never could be mine." We comforted and 
consoled ourself with reflections of a similar nature, 
and at. length arrived at sufficient Christian fortitude 
mentally to apostrophize Mr. Crump in a burst of 
generous enthusiasm, thus, fi Take her, Crump, take 
her, but make her happy." Did we use our hand- 
kerchief at the same time to wipe away a tear ? 
Excuse us, dear reader, but that you shall never 
know. 

We have said that Mrs. Frump and Mr. Crump 
appeared formed for one another. The same nega- 
tive qualities (if we may use such an expression) 
distinguished both. The only approach to definite 
character which could be remarked in Mr. Crump 
was stoutness, and a stranger might on the first 
interview have confidently pronounced him to be no 
genius. He was a member of the Provincial Par- 
liament, or House of Assembly, and represented a 
remote district called Stumpandswamp. Why, or 
with what views, he had been elected, is a mystery 
between himself and his constituents, of w T hich we 
jiave never heard the solution. He is not the leader 



120 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

of a party, and his parliamentary duties are com- 
prised in voting occasionally when he happens to be 
present, slumbering through the debates, drawing 
his daily allowance as a member, and keeping his- 
family supplied with stationery all the year round at 
the expense of the province. 

His speeches are generally reported after this 
fashion : " Mr. Crump perfectly agreed with the 
honourable gentleman who spoke last, and would 
not take up the time of the House any longer ;." or, 
" Mr. Crump made a few remarks, which were inau- 
dible in the reporters' galllery." There is generally 
a vast deal of coughing when Mr. Crump rises (sel- 
dom as it is), for he has not the faculty of amusing 
"the House" by his humorous blunders, like that 
honourable member, Mr. Leatherhead, from the 
county of Softbrains. Only on one occasion, to the 
best of our recollection, did Mr. Crump make what 
can be called an attempt at rhetorical display. 
Rising with dignity, he wiped from his forehead the 
profuse perspiration indicative of the labouring brain 
within, and spoke as follows : — 

" Mr. Cheerman — ahem — Mr. Cheerman — we live 
■ — in — an enlightened age — Mr. Cheerman — we live 
in an age — of — of — " (an aw T ful pause, during which, 
Mr. Crump actually grows redder in the face than 
usual, and fidgets with his handkerchief) " an age, 
Mr. Cheerman, of — of — enlightenment " (another 
awful pause, and after several spasmodic gasps, and 
a wild clutch at the back of his chair, Mr. Crump 



THE UNREMARKABLE FEMALE. 121 

sits down, amid roars of laughter, without having 
demonstrated his premises, that " we live in an 
enlightened age, or an age of enlightenment." 

From the time that we first heard of the pending 
engagement between Mr. Crump and Mrs. Frump, 
the former became an object of interest, the latter, 
if possible, of renewed interest to us. We used to 
sit in the gallery of the House, and watch Mr. 
Crump's unwieldy figure, and endeavour to read in 
his phlegmatic physiognomy and dull grey eye some 
tokens of the inward fire which was consuming him. 
Mrs. Frump, too, was eagerly watched. From a 
window which commanded a view of her court-yard 
we could behold her engaged in the pleasing domestic 
occupation of hanging out clothes. 

On these occasions, on which we beheld Mrs. 
Frump (to borrow an expressive Gallicism) "chez elle" 
(anglice at home), she wore an older, more dilapidated 
coal-scuttle bonnet of straw (dearer to us, by the 
way, than the original of the celebrated u chapeau de 
paille " could have been to Rubens), which was put 
on more as it appeared with the view of screening 
the face from the sun than with an eye to fashionable 
effect, since it afforded a striking contrast to the style 
so much in vogue ; in short, it completely covered 
the head and a great part of the features. How 
natural that Mrs. Frump should so far conform to 
the usages of the world as to have a deshabille as 
well as a full-dress costume. She knew not even 



122 GEINS AND WRINKLES. 

that the observant eye of her faithful platonie 
admirer was upon her. 

The playful zephyr toyed wantonly with a certain 
article of female apparel, causing it to flutter so as 
to defeat Mrs. Frump's efforts to fasten it to the 
line with that utensil of domestic economy vulgarly 
called a clothes-pin. An exclamation of impatience 
escaped the lips of Mrs. Frump, at this unexpected 
opposition of a lifeless thing to her wishes. Echo 
(one of the many classical embodiments which 
hovered round Mrs. Frump) caught the words and 
conveyed them to our ear. We may have been 
mistaken, but they sounded more like " Bother the 
shimmy " than anything else. 

Suddenly, with the electrical rapidity of a chain 
of thought, the contrast between Mrs. Frump as 
she then appeared hanging out clothes, and Mrs. 
Frump a new-made bride w T ith orange blossoms in 
her hair, struck us so forcibly, and from so ludicrous 
a point of view, that we could not repress a perfect 
shriek of laughter. Two events followed in such 
proximity as almost to be simultaneous. The straw 
bonnet was tilted into the air at an angle of forty- 
five degrees, so as to give the eyes beneath the 
range of the window ; and from that window we 
immediately vanished. 

For Miss Quizwel's benefit, who kept continually 
saying that she did not believe it — that she could 
not understand it — that it was impossible these 



THE UNREMARKABLE FEMALE. 123 

" two old things " (such was her irreverent way of 
speaking of Mr. Crump and Mrs. Frump) were 
really going to be married, w T e inquired and learned 
it was not altogether a love-match, but that motives 
of interest and expediency had actuated both parties. 
The circumstances were these: — 

Mr. Crump owed Mrs. Frump a round sum of 
money for board and lodging during the session of 
parliament. Always averse to paying money when 
he could help it, Mr. Crump revolved how he could 
avoid discharoino; this debt with credit to himself. 
Mrs. Frump also, to use a common phrase, " had her 
weather-eye open." One night, by some unaccount- 
able accident, Mr. Crump slept in damp sheets. 
The consequence was a severe cold and rheumatism. 
Nothing, could exceed the well-acted surprise and 
sympathy of Mrs. Frump. Such a thing had never 
happened before, in her house, and could not, should 
not, by any conceivable possibility happen again. 
The girl, " careless jade," should have warning that 
very day, and, for the future, Mrs. Frump would 
superintend the airing of everything, down to a pair 
of socks, with her own eye. Doubtless she meant 
both eyes, though she spoke but of one. 

Mr. Crump could hardly regret his illness, so 
exceedingly attentive was Mrs. Frump to his com- 
forts. Never had his gruel been so nicely made, or 
his back more tenderly manipulated, than by the 
scientific hands of Mrs. Frump. Mr. Crump calcu- 
lated the matter like a prudent man of business ; 



124 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

weighed the expense of a wife against the saving of 
a bill for board and lodging, and the necessity of a 
housekeeper, threw in perhaps a grain of gratitude, 
which turned the scale, and decided on marrying 
Mrs. Frump. We almost shrink from describing 
the affecting declaration of attachment. It requires 
an abler pen than ours to do justice to the scene on 
that eventful morning when Mr. Crump, being 
entirely recovered, Mrs. Frump entered his apart- 
ment with the bill in her hand and a tear in her eye 
(for he had not spoken out yet, and she dreaded 
losing him after all). 

" My dear Mrs. Frump," said Mr. Crump, " what 
would you say if I were to decline paying that bill ? " 

"Say, sir!" why, sir, I'd say as how you was 
a-jokin', sir, with a poor widdy woman as lives by 
boardin' and lodgin'." 

" Now, Mrs. Frump," replied Mr. Crump, " can't 
you imagine circumstances under which it would be 
perfectly preposterous for you to ask me to pay it ! " 

Mrs. Frump trembled with undefined hope. Mr. 
Crump went on : 

" Suppose, for the sake of argument, Mrs. Frump, 
that I said to you, Will you marry me, Mrs. Frump? 
and you said, Yes. Would it not be a joke then 
presenting your bill? — only for the sake of argument 
now, suppose — " 

But Mrs. Frump could not dissemble her joy. 
She completely overlooked Mr. Crump's hypo- 
thetical way of putting the case. She only heard a 



THE UNREMARKABLE FEMALE. 125 

downright proposal at last. She was to be a lone, 
lorn woman, a widow, no longer. Not a moment 
more could she keep her hands off what she re- 
garded as already her own property. She had her 
arms round Mr. Crump's neck and had kissed him 
twice before he could call for help, had he been so 
inclined. 

Perhaps, in that moment, Mr. Crump bitterly 
repented his precipitancy ; but it w r as too late. 
Mrs. Frump had accepted him, and the new servant, 
always in the way (but perhaps most opportunely 
for Mrs. Frump in the present instance), appeared 
at this moment a witness of the bargain. As she 
beheld Mrs. Frump in Mr. Crump's arms, or, more 
correctly, Mr. Crump in Mrs. Frump's embrace, the 
new servant gave utterance to an ejaculation of 
surprise and wonder (very common with girls of her 
rank and class, known by the world as "menials," 
and by a slang but expressive phrase, as " slaveys '*). 
The word was "lawk/' evidently corrupted from its 
original meaning, and not to be found in Johnson : 
of its exact signification we are ignorant. But Mrs. 
Frump only held on the tighter, and gave symptoms 
of approaching hysterics, if Mr. Crump did not 
soon acknowledge her as his affianced wife. Who 
shall tell what frightful visions of actions for breach 
of promise, and damages far exceeding the amount 
of his landlady's bill, danced before the mental eyes 
of Mr. Crump, in that agitating moment, and mad- 
dened him to the desperate resolve. He deliberated — 



126 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

and was lost, — we mean, he made a decided proposal, 
was accepted, and married before he had time to 
repent. 

We regret to state that Miss Quizwel repeatedly 
interrupted the narration with fits of laughter, and 
persisted in asking, with mock gravity, " Will he 
take her home with him ? " Reader, that question 
we can answer. He did take her home with him. 
" Sic transit gloria mundi" Mrs. Frump is now no 
more — at least she exists not to us : a landmark has 
been taken from our existence in the absence of the 
unremarkable female with the coal-scuttle bonnet, 
umbrella, and pattens. We felt, when she departed, 
that the corner-house could never look the same to 
us again. And, as if to mark the desolation more 
strongly, the corner-house has literally changed. It 
has undergone repairs and been newly painted, and 
a shop has been opened in it by a smart, dapper little 
woman, the very antipodes to Mrs. Frump. Our 
feelings have received a rude shock. We feel, 
indeed, now too keenly that this world is made up 
of changes. Old associations are broken up. Like 
Bishop Berkeley, we begin to think "there is no 
matter," — like Toots, that everything is " of no con- 
sequence." There is only one emotion, or thrill of 
pleasure, which bids fair to rescue us from this 
fearful condition of scepticism and indifference, and 
that occurs when we place our arm round the slim 
waist of Miss Quizwel to dance the polka. At such 
times, it appears perfectly ridiculous to doubt her 



THE UNREMARKABLE FEMALE. 127 

reality, or the fact (which we have declared to her 
so frequently, that we have no room to doubt it 
ourself) that she is a charming girl, though she is so 
satirical* 



128 



MRS. BL— M— R ON FEMALE EMAN- 
CIPATION. 



{Mrs- Bl — m — r seated at a table, writing, and drink- 
ing coffee.) 

Mrs. B. {loquitur). At length, I approach the 
termination of my labours, and already begin to 
appreciate the exaltation of Gibbon, when he wrote 
the last lines of his "Decline and Fall.' 5 After 
repeated trials, I have at length hit upon a fitting 
peroration to my work on the Regeneration of 
Woman. {Reads.) It may be that the monster 
man (stay, let me underscore these words, monster 
man, so) {reads) "that the monster man" may not 
yet have filled up the measure of his iniquities 
towards our sex. The struggle for freedom may yet 
be delayed. The wicked may yet continue to 
prosper. But let not the oppressor boast in his 
fancied security. The storm is brewing. The finer 
organs of woman hear the distant mutterings of the 
thunder, though man, steeped in his sensual enjoy- 
ments, may yet remain unconscious and unheedful. 
We can foresee a contest more fearful than any of 
the hitherto petty wars waged only between races 
and nations. It is the struggle for freedom between 



MRS. BL — M — R ON FEMALE EMANCIPATION. 129 

the sexes, all over the world — between woman and 
her tyrant man, the true battle of equality. What 
shall resist the Amazonian spirit which shall then 
animate the sex to a man (dear me, a mistake 
(corrects), to a woman). With the fall of the 
usurper man, ^shall fall all king-craft, priest-craft, 
state-craft,- — all the unworthy shackles forged by 
the monster, in his long reign of power, to keep our 
brave, manly (dear me, another slip of the pen 
{corrects), womanly) spirit in subjection. And after 
this fearful commotion of the moral elements shall 
have subsided, — after the revolution which, in its 
chaotic effects, will only be surpassed by *' the wreck 
of matter and the crush of worlds " — shall have 
passed away, from the bright blue empyrean, even as 
the ark rested on Mount Ararat, shall woman, 
lovely woman, take her seat on the topmost round 
of the social ladder, and begin her reign of justice 
and peace, dispensing with a lavish hand happiness 
and contentment, from her elevated locality, on the 
sure and steady foundations of a moral platform. 
(Fungs the hell — to a servant who enters.) Send 
Bl — m — r to me. (Enter Mr. Bl — m — r, looking 
very subdued.) Oh, Bl — m— r, run with this MS. to 
the publisher, and if they don't keep you above one 
hour and a half, or two hours, you can wait for the 
proof; and then make haste home, for I'm bound to 
be down town by two. I shall dine at Taylor's, so 
you needn't wait dinner for me. You'll find the 
cold mutton in the pantry. We've only had it three 

K 



130 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

times, so there'll be plenty of picking for you and 
the children; and mind you don't stir from the 
house this evening, for I've got to lecture at the 
Stuyvesant Institute on Manhood. {Bl — m — r is 
going.) Stay; come back; I forgot: as you come 
from the publisher, you can call at the tailor's, and 
tell him I won't give him another day beyond 

Thursday to send home my new . {Exit 

Bl — m — r, in a great hurry. Mrs. Bl — m — r whistles 
« Yankee Doodle.") 



131 



ST. CLARE; 

OR, 

THE DANGERS OF FLIRTATION. 



" Had we — but hold — hear every part 
Of our sad tale — spite of the pain 
Remembrance gives, when the fix'd dart 
Is stirr'd thus in the wound again — " 

Moore's Loves of the Angels. 

Edward St. Clare richly deserved all those 
expressive eulogia which young men lavish on one 
another. He was "a nice fellow/' "a clever fel- 
low," " the best fellow in the world " (besides being 
a very good-looking fellow into the bargain) ; in 
short, " a regular brick of a fellow" Permit us to 
remark, en passant, gentle reader, that we cannot 
satisfy the curiosity of a young lady who is desirous of 
knowing the exact signification of this word "brick" 
what manly qualities it denotes, and how it came to 
be applied as a commendatory appellation to young 
men ; but w T e believe it had its origin in Oxford, and 
vaguely implies the possession of heroism, generosity, 
courage, &c, and generally all the attributes of the 
male nature. 

" Xed St. Clare " had, however, one weakness, 
viz., a tendency to flirt, — w r e should rather say a 

k 2 



132 GRINS AND WRINKLES, 

confirmed habit of flirting. He could not sit beside 
a young lady for five minutes without turning the 
conversation on love ; and we know the truth of the 
French proverb : — 

rt Parler oV amour, c^ est f aire V amour? 
But in order to make the reader thoroughly ac- 
quainted with Edward St. Clare, we cannot do better 
than insert a description of his character, written 
by an intimate friend, in a letter addressed to him,, 
and which we may call 

" PORTRAIT OF A PHILOSOPHICAL FLIRT." 

" Wherever you are, St. Clare (for I only know 
your New York address at present), I'll wager you 
are pursuing your old game of falling in love, acting 
up to the character which all the young ladies give 
you of being smitten with every pretty face. It has 
become quite an aphorism, I assure you, that ' Mr. 
St. Clare makes love to everybody.' Your cha- 
racter, mon cher ami, is an unfortunate compound of 
the man of feeling and the philosopher. It would 
be better if you possessed a great deal more or a 
great deal less of either. As it is> you keep search- 
ing everywhere for a woman sufficiently approaching 
your ideas of perfection to love, and as you never 
find the wonderful creature, you only fall partially in 
love. You can break your chains at the voice of 
reason, and fly forth like the roving bee to fresh 
conquests. Not so with the fair object of your 
flirtation, in whom you have been vainly trying for 



THE DANGERS OF FLIRTATION. 133 

a time to behold your ideal. She may fall a victim, 
while you depart free and unfettered. Monster, have 
you no fear of poetical justice overtaking you ? Do 
you not perceive my application? You are too 
much of a philosopher in not surrendering youfr 
heart altogether where you have provoked love ; and 
you are too little of a philosopher in permitting 
yourself to be attracted for a temporary period 
by charms which have not power to retain you for 
ever. 

" Feeling certain that you are deeply grateful to 
me for this estimate of your character, for not 
putting the harshest construction on your conduct, I 
declare that you are too much of a philosopher to be 
quite a flirt, and a great deal too much of a flirt, to 
be quite a philosopher. What a pity ! for the sake 
of the peace of mind of the other s§£, that one of 
these two great traits in your character — your 
philosophy or your susceptibility — does not entirely 
usurp the other. Then, you could either remain 
stoically indifferent to the fair sex, or you could 
fall really in love, and get married ; which latter event 
would be a good thing for yourself, and also for Mrs. 
Edward St. Clare. For my part, I have always 
admired the gay nonchalance which leads you to 
combine labour and love in so impartial a degree, to 
recruit the mind exhausted with the pursuits of 
ambition with a little racy flirtation, (though you 
"Jin renard" never call it by that name), to be 
severe upon you. I always take your part when 



134 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

I hear you stigmatized (which I regret to say I do 
very frequently) as "an arrant flirt," "an accom- 
plished male coquette/' "a would-be lady-killer," 
"a vain coxcomb," "a conceited jackanapes," "a 
iieartless trifler with female affection," " a gallant, 
gay Lothario," and an immense number of similar 
complimentary terms. 

" The coolness with which you, Edward St. Clare, 
a graduate of Harvard University, possessed of ac- 
knowledged talent, &c, can turn aside from serious 
work or grave argument, to chatter nonsense with 
some girl, for whom you don't care two pins, and 
follow up the acquaintance, unshaken by the raillery 
of friends or the fear of Mrs. Grundy's remarks, 
until your fancy has tired itself out, and you find 
she is not the girl for you (thus taking a young 
female immortal, and experimenting on her mentally 
and morally, as you would on an impaled butterfly 
or beetle, in an entomological point of view), has 
always amused and interested me. At one time, I 
hear of you reading furiously, burning the midnight 
oil with a perseverance which threatens to defeat 
the very object of such over application. I dread to 
hear that you are in a consumption, and that all 
your hopes of literary fame are destined to extinc- 
tion, when, presto, the next news is, that your 
books are cast aside, and you are dangling after some 
fair girl, either at some fashionable watering-place — 
Newport, or Saratoga — or in some little out-of-the- 
way inland village amongst the Kaatskills or the 



THE DANGERS OF FLIRTATION. 135 

White Mountains ; not in love, for that I believe you 
never were in your life, but only suffering under the 
incipient stages of the disease, slightly or severely 
smitten, as the case may be. 

" And you make such charming philosophical 
excuses for your conduct, that no friend at least, can 
think it otherwise than the only rational and proper 
thing you could have done under the circumstances. 
Thus, for instance, I think I hear you say, i A 
young lady has dawned upon my horizon (I met her 
at a party the other evening), whose appearance 
greatly interested me. She was handsome without 
being a beauty. Her figure slight and elegant^ her 
manners easy and graceful. Began to conceive it 
possible that she might be the identical young lady 
intended by fate to convert me from a miserable, 
despairing bachelor, into a happy Benedick. She 
may be the one destined to change the language of 
compliment and false flattery, which I have whis- 
pered to so many, into a sincere, heartfelt avowal of 
love ; to fill up the vacuum in my affections which I 
in vain endeavour to supply by light trivial attach- 
ments and flirtations.' You accordingly become 
quite devoted to the young lady, walk, talk, polka 
with her ; and just when all your friends are con- 
gratulating you, and the young lady's friends are 
congratulating her on the highly eligible connexion 
you are both about to make — you — O inconstant, 
capricious, hard-hearted stoic ! are off upon a tour, or 



136 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

find some pretext or other for discontinuing jour 
attentions, regardless of the consequences, the fury 
of relatives, and the agony of a bereaved heart. 

" If you would but own your crime, and repent it 
in sackcloth. But no> ' thou hast damnable iteration/ 
as Falstaff saith ; and upon the slightest hint you 
enter on a diabolically skilful justification of your 
conduct. You, poor innocent, are not aware that 
you have behaved amiss. ' Dear me, is a man to be 
rallied either into marriage, or out of the acquain- 
tance of every agreeable girl he meets ? I assure 
you I have not such a coxcombical opinion of myself 
or my own merits, as to fancy that every pretty girl 
to whom I have said some civil things will break her 
heart for me. I never spoke of love to the young 
lady, that is, I never said I loved her. It was Pla- 
tonic friendship, nothing more.' And pray, St. 
Clare, how many of these Platonic friendships may 
your Philosophy have had already? There is cer- 
tainly much to be said in extenuation of your 
conduct. Perhaps it is better to be called flirt, 
coquette, deceiver, — anything, rather than forego 
the society of an agreeable, accomplished woman. 
Still it is no excuse for your conscience that you 
have not directly committed yourself by an avowal 
of love, if you have deliberately, on every oppor- 
tunity 5 by all those little inexpressible attentions, by 
looks, words, and manner, given a woman cause to 
think you love her. And so I leave the subject 



THE DANGERS OF FLIRTATION. 137 

well knowing that all my preaching is thrown away; 
for you are incorrigible, and will remain, I fear, to 
the end of the chapter, 

"a philosophical flirt." 



Now, Edward St. Clare had hitherto succeeded in 
eluding all the machinations of match - makers, 
mammas, and marriageable misses, and was engaged 
as usual making his attentions as catholic as possible 
among the fair of New York, when all at once his 
absence from the "beau monde" was suddenly re- 
marked. It was the evening of an " at home," at a 
most fashionable mansion in Fifth Avenue. A 
stream of carriages completely filled up the street, 
the knocker vibrated with incessant rat-tats, the 
rooms were filling rapidly, and more than one fair 
valseuse wondered that St. Clare came not to claim 
the promised hand, as with eye and ear on the alert, 
she strove to hide her disappointment on the fresh 
announcement of some indifferent name. Still St. 
Clare came not, and he had been heard to say that 
he would not have missed this " assemblee " on any 
account. And no note of excuse either — nothing to 
account for his strange absence. 

Other assemblies took place, at which St. Clare's 
unwonted absence excited the wonder of his friends. 
At length it became known that he had left New 
York abruptly, but whither and on what errand no 
one knew. As time flew on and St. Clare returned 



138 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

not, even the vacuum left by the gay man of fashion 
began to be occupied; for in "good society" the 
places even of the most popular and the greatest 
favourites are soon filled up, and friends forgot to 
speculate on what had become of him, and fair 
ladies who had vowed in strictest confidence to other 
fair ladies that they were quite inconsolable for 
that " dear delightful fellow, St. Clare/' that they 
were quite miserable that nothing had been heard of 
him, that they never could see any one whom they 
liked as well, &c, began to be consoled in his absence, 
to dance and play off their fascinations on others, 
and to hide their misery so skilfully, that spectators 
in general gave them credit for being exceedingly 
light-hearted and happy. 

Two years had elapsed, and a young gentleman, 
whose name we shall disguise under that of Jack 
Aimless, happened to be sitting in the Broadway 
Theatre. He was regarding intently an individual 
at some distance, and it was evident, from the fixed- 
ness of his gaze, and the muttered phrases which 
broke from him at intervals, to such effect as, u I'll 
take my oath it's he," and then again, " Pish ! 
nonsense, it's impossible — a mere chance resem- 
blance," that he recognized, or fancied that he recog- 
nized an old acquaintance. 

Gentle reader, have you ever been placed in a 
similar predicament ? If so, you have experienced 
the strange struggle between the two opinions — one 
prompting you not to lose sight of an old friend, 



THE DANGERS OF FLIRTATION. 139 

perhaps for ever, on account of a little mauvaise 
honte, on the score of the uncertainty of his identity 
— the other holding you back, lest you accost an 
entire stranger. 

Jack Aimless was now a prey to this nicely balanced 
struggle between two impulses. At one moment he 
got up as if he had finally made up his mind to 
speak to the stranger — then he would sit down and 
turn his gaze to some other part of the house, as if 
determined not to be made the sport of a mere fancy. 
But do what he could, he found it impossible to dis- 
tract his attention from the individual in question. 
His eyes would wander back in spite of him, and he 
would stare harder than ever. The stranger, who 
was dressed in a coarse surtout, buttoned up close 
to his chin, was leaning forward on his elbows, his 
head crouched between his shoulders, as if he desired 
to hide as much of his features as possible. He kept 
his gaze steadily fixed on the stage, but not like a 
man who was intent on the proceedings. He stared 
with lack-lustre eye, he neither laughed] nor ap- 
plauded, nor shared in any way the varying emotions, 
which the acting produced on the rest of the audience, 
but preserved the same immoveable unchangeable 
expression. His thoughts were evidently far away, 
and quite independent of the scene in which he found 
himself. He seemed like one, who, constantly 
brooding over painful ideas, had forced himself 
into this place of merriment, to cheat memory for a 
while. But if this was his object, it was also quite 



140 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

evident that he had failed in the attempt. For there 
he sat, the only unmoved one in that vast assemblage, 
preserving the same sad look, while the faces of all 
around were wreathed in smiles. Nor at tragic parts, 
when tears might be seen rolling down some cheeks^ 
did this man appear a whit more moved. He seemed 
to cany about with him some hidden grief, which 
could neither be lightened nor increased. 

Such a singular demeanour in a place of amuse- 
ment might well excite the curiosity of any observer 
of human nature ; but Jack Aimless seemed to have 
further private reasons for watching the moody 
stranger. When the latter suddenly got up with a 
restless movement, and took his way to the bar-room 
attached to the theatre, Mr. Aimless followed, and 
stood at the counter almost as soon as the unknown* 

" I beg your pardon, sir," said Jack, as the 
other raised a glass of brandy to his lips, " but 
surely I have had the pleasure of your acquaintance." 
"You have not sir," said he, whom he addressed 
abruptly, almost rudely, as he swallowed his brandy, 
and drawing his coat-collar up about his face, went 
forth into the street. 

" Cool, that, by Jove," soliloquised Jack ; " well, I 
suppose I've made a mistake ; a singular case of 
resemblance ; I would have sworn it was he ; though 
dreadfully reduced ; just as if he had got up from a 
sick-bed ; and yet I don't know — why should a stranger 
have answered a civil question so snappishly. Hang 
me if I'll give it up yet ; I'll follow and trace him ; at 



THE DANGERS OF FLIRTATION. 141 

all events, I'll be quite satisfied before I leave him." 
With this magnanimous resolution Jack hastened 
out of the saloon, and succeeded in "sighting" the 
stranger, who was stalking along Broadway, quite 
unconscious that his footsteps were dogged. 

Broadway is a gay thoroughfare by night, especially 
as you approach the Park, which, though in itself 
only one-third as large as the Green Park in London, 
is rendered imposing by the City-Hall, rising within, 
in all the dignity of white marble, and by the Mammoth 
Hotels which cluster in the neighbourhood. These 
Mammoth Hotels are remarkable for many things, two 
of which alone we shall notice here. First, the 
spittoons which cover the tesselated floor of the hall 
and smoking-room ; these spittoons, from their large 
size and elegant appearance, and their claim to public 
attention (not hiding themselves away modestly 
in corners as they do in English hotels, but occu- 
pying prominent places, as if conscious of their own 
importance) might almost be deemed a peculiar 
national institution of the Republic. Secondly, the 
long rows of the soles of boots w T bich may be seen 
elevated at the windows of the smoking-rooms, and 
to the unsophisticated on a cursory glance, conveying 
the idea that the ground-floor of these hotels must 
be tenanted by shoemakers, who thus display their 
wares for sale ; whereas these boots adorn the feet of 
free and enlightened citizens, who, either from choice, 
or a conviction that a horizontal position promotes a 
better circulation of the blood, or an obliging wish 



142 GRINS AND WRTNKLES. 

to gratify such passengers as may have any curiosity 
to inspect the soles of their boots, preserve this atti- 
tude by tilting their chairs back ; and in the mean- 
time keeping up what Dickens would call " a playful 
and incessant shower of expectoration." 

About this hour in the evening, the oyster cellars 
present a very gay and enlivening appearance ; the 
immense billiard saloons (some of them containing 
rooms above rooms, each with half-a-dozen tables, 
and a rifle gallery at the top), and the ten-pin alleys 
are thronged ; omnibuses are crowded too closely 
together to run races with each other, as they fre- 
quently do, at the upper end of Broadway ; and if 
there happens to be a fire, which is generally the case 
in New York, morning, night, and noon, the ringing 
of alarm bells and the shouting and yelling of the 
"Uhoys" w r ho run with the engines through the 
streets, make the scene tolerably impressive to 
strangers. Tracking the unknown through these 
familiar sights and sounds, Aimless came at length 
abruptly upon him as he stood gazing on a spectacle 
which we believe to be quite peculiar to New York. 
It was one of those undertakers' stores or ware- 
houses, in which large coffins, manufactured out of 
mahogany, and beautifully lined with white satin, 
are exhibited, standing on end " like open presses.' 
On these receptacles for the dead, which derived from 
the flaring gas-light a particularly ghastly appearance, 
the stranger gazed as earnestly as if riveted to the 
spot by some peculiar interest inappreciable to the 



THE DANGERS OF FLIRTATION. 143 

general observer. Aimless had now a good oppor- 
tunity of studying his features, and was on the point 
of again accosting him, when, heaving a deep sigh, 
the unknown turned and hastened away. Aimless 
followed him across the Park and up the Bowery. 
The stranger frequently stopped and entered various 
places of amusement, ten-pin alleys, billiard saloons, 
rifle-galleries, &c, all with the uncertain, restless, 
purposeless air of a man seeking to fly from himself, 
to banish some gnawing gaping wound of memory. 

Just in front of the Bowery Theatre, three young 
men locked together, arm-in-arm, in a highly excited 
and uproarious state, from frequent potations of 
brandy-and-water, attempted to take the trottoir all 
to themselves, and jostle the stranger into the gutter. 
Aimless stepped forward to proffer his assistance 
against the heavy odds, but ere he could reach the 
scene of the fray, it became evident that the stranger 
stood in no need of help. Had his drunken assailants 
noticed his eye, or could they have known the fierce 
reckless mood of the man, they had wantonly in- 
sulted, assuredly they would have stood aside to let 
him pass, for, turning upon them with a curse, as if 
overjoyed with having something at length on which 
to vent his pent-up bile, the unknown, struck right 
and left, two well planted blows, which made two of 
them measure their length on the pavement. The 
third ran off at full speed, howling for the police ; but 
the police are proverbially never in the way w T hen 
wanted, even in London, much more so in New 



144 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

York, where they are, comparatively, " so few and far 
between." " A plucky fellow," thought Aimless, as 
the . stranger passed on withont condescending to 
notice his fallen antagonists. " Ha, down Town, this 
time,'* he added, as he noted the other's direction. 
" Well, I'll follow you, if you walk about all night." 

In the course of an hour, the unknown was pacing 
on to the Battery, still followed, at some distance, by 
the persevering Aimless. The Battery (we state 
for the benefit of readers not personally acquainted 
with the topography of New York), is a pleasant 
grove or park, at the southern, or lower extremity of 
the city, and takes its name from the esplanade, which, 
mounted with guns, would make a most efficient 
battery. It is no longer fashionable, but is one of 
the prettiest and most picturesque spots in New 
York, notwithstanding. The tide was in, and the 
waves washed the stone- coping about six or eight feet 
below the spot where the stranger stood. He appeared 
to be gesticulating violently, evidently fancying him- 
self free from observation, for the hour was late, and 
no loungers could be observed. Aimless, however, 
who had hitherto stood in the shadow of a tree, crept 
nearer, with a thrill of horror, as he saw the tall 
figure relieved so plainly in the clear starlight sky, 
throw up its arms above its head, preparatory, as 
he interpreted the gesture, to diving into the sea. 

" Come away, for God's sake, come away," cried 
Aimless, with his arms round the stranger's waist, 
struggling to drag him from the verge of the parapet. 



THE DANGERS OF FLIRTATION. 145 

11 What is the meaning of this impertinent intrusion 
on my privacy?" said the other, curbing his resent- 
ment under a measured tone of haughty good-breed- 
ing. u If I don't mistake, you are the same person 
who already accosted me this evening. By what 
right do you presume to dog my footsteps?" 

" Now, it won't do. Ned St. Clare, it won't do," re- 
turned Aimless. "I've followed you like your shadow 
ever since you left the theatre, and as sure as I'm 
Jack Aimless, so sure are you Edward St. Clare. 
Why, the way you floored those two fellows in the 
Bowery was proof positive. Nay, nay, St. Clare, 
do me justice," added Aimless, as the person he ad- 
dressed turned away gloomily, "can you have so 
utterly forgotten my character as to attribute my 
conduct to-night to any miserable prying curiosity? 
First of all, I wished to be convinced if it was really 
you, my old friend, whom I have mourned as dead 
for two years, and now that I have found you— don't 
think I wish to worry you with questions, or to ask 
your confidence. Tell me nothing, St. Clare, of that 
which has worn you almost to a shadow, and made 
you look as if ten years, and not two, had passed over 
your head ; but at least shake me by the hand, and 
look as if you believed me when I tell you how glad 
I am to see you once again." 

" I do, I do," said St. Clare, with quivering voice, 
his incognito and his sternness of manner both giving 
way before this manly greeting of an old friend. 

L 



146 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

" Forgive me, Aimless ; let us sit down here on this 
seat awhile. Don't speak to me yet, Aimless. I'm 
not used to this sort of thing — sympathy, and I can't 
trust my voice to reply." 

And sitting down upon a seat under a tree, with 
his friend s hand locked fast in his, the man, who but 
a short hour ago, had given such evidence of the 
steadiness of his nerves, now bent over, his elbows 
supported on his knees, his face hidden in his 
hands, and Aimless knew by the convulsive throbs 
and twitches of his frame that he was weeping 

bitterly. 

* * # # 

"Not a word, not a word to-night, my dear 
friend," said Aimless; " let us go home; some other 
time, when you are more composed , I will hear this 
painful story." 

" No, no, to-night, now, here in this secluded spot, 
with the branches overhead waving gently in the 
night-breeze, and the moan of the sea in our ears— 
what better accompaniment, what more fitting time 
and place ! — I will tell it now, my dear Aimless. I 
shall be better when I have unburthened my mind 
of this dreadful secret, when I have made you my 
confidant ; the misery of memory will not be so 
great when you share it with me." 

And so, on that calm night, under the trees of the 
Battery, the Atlantic wind sighing over the harbour 
of New York, and rustling the leaves over their 



THE DANGERS OF FLIRTATION. 147 

heads, and while the city slept, Edward St. Clare 
made the following confession to his friend John 
Aimless. 



There is something in the act of relating a grief 
which lightens the heart. It must have been for 
this reason that St. Clare appeared to his wondering 
friend, Aimless, to have undergone a sudden reaction, 
and especially in some of the lighter parts of his 
narrative, spoke with a vivacity, almost a gaiety, 
which seemed quite out of place, and inconsistent 
with a sorrowful catastrophe. 

ST. CLAEE'S STORY. 

THE PIC-NIC. 

" You are well aw r are," began St. Clare, " that in 

the town of A , on that beautiful river, the 

Indian name of which signifies the broad water, I 
have friends and relatives, and that I have spent 
there some of the happiest days of my life. It was 
on the occasion of one of my periodical visits to 
A that I made one of a numerous and pro- 
miscuous pic-nic assemblage in the steamer 6 Arrow. 5 
It had been arranged that steamers should leave 

A and B , situate about 120 miles apart, 

at the same time, and meet at an appointed place 
midway distant from both towns, thus giving the 
passengers the opportunity of enjoying each other's 

l 2 



148 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

society, after which the boats were to return to 
their respective destinations. 

" It was a bright morning, between seven and 
eight o'clock, that I and my old college-chum, Tom 
Thornton, walked down to the steamboat-landing. 
I had not exactly made up my mind about going, 
and I watched the parties as they went on board, 
hoping that some unusually pretty face, with the 
charm of novelty, might overcome my indecision. 

" ' To go, or not to go,' said I to Tom. ' Oh, 
come by all means/ said Tom. * I don't know,' said 
I. ' Perhaps it will turn out a dull affair, and I 
don't see any one on board that I care about par- 
ticularly.' Just at that moment, I caught sight of 
a very pretty face belonging to a Miss Myrtle, a 
young lady to whom I had been very devoted, 
although the intimacy had cooled of late. 'You 
will go now,' said Tom, slyly, as he marked the 
direction of my eyes. 6 If I do,' I replied, c it will 
not be to play the agreeable to Miss Myrtle, " though, 
by your smiling, you would seem to say so." Don't 
you know I am de trop in that quarter — that I am 
supplanted ? ' Just then, the band on board struck 
up. ' Tom/ said I, ' that polka has decided me; I 
will go, if it is only to be mechant, and show Miss 
Myrtle that I can enjoy myself even in the presence 
of my rival, whom I see paying his devoirs to her 
already. I will flirt fast and furiously with every 
pretty girl who will let me.' ' I believe you,' said 
Tom. On w T hat trifles does our fate depend ! If I 



THE DANGERS 0E FLIRTATION. 149 

had not been decided thus, as it seemed, by the most 
trivial circumstance, to step on board the 6 Arrow/ 
I should not have seen Annette Armour; and then 
I never should have known" — here a deep, long- 
drawn sigh convulsed St. Clare's bosom. After a 
pause, he continued : " The day was fine ; the 
scenery on both sides of the river beautiful ; there 
was no lack of pretty faces and pleasant people ; the 
band discoursed most delightful dance-music ; and 
between quadrilles, polkas, and admiration of nature, 
both animate and inanimate, the time flew rapidly, 
and we arrived, as it appeared, in an incredibly short 
period, at the appointed place. The other steamer 
was there already, and had begun disembarking her 
passengers. 

" The spectacle was most picturesque and striking. 
The spot had been admirably selected. The ground 
rose with a sweep, in some places precipitous, in 
others gradual, from a savannah or intervale of a 
quarter of a mile in width between the river and the 
highlands. The mountains were dotted with magni- 
ficent trees, chiefly oak, and the gay groups, who 
wandered about and formed little encampments 
underneath their branches, unfolding white cloths, 
and spreading the contents of their baskets on the 
green sward, formed a ' fete champetre' worthy of 
Watteau's pencil. My meditations on the pic- 
turesque were interrupted by some very decided 
common-place qualms of hanger. I had received 
kind invitations from several families to join their 



150 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

tables (or, to speak more correctly, table-cloths), all 
which I had declined, having previously engaged 
myself to Tom Thornton and sundry other young 
bachelors, who scorned the society of the female 
sex, and had brought their own 6 prog.' 

" Taking my winding way up the side of the 
mountain, now covered with merry parties sitting on 
the grass, and discussing the good things which had 
been unpacked from their respective hampers, I 
could not help feeling a sort of regret that I had 
been so precipitate in shutting myself out from such 
agreeable companionship; but I consoled myself 
with the thought that I had seen no one yet to 
whom I felt inclined to devote myself. At last I 
discovered my bachelor party perched upon a cliff, 
and, having joined them, forthwith proceeded to 
satisfy the calls of hunger. 

" It chanced that immediately below us sat a 
party composed of a family of young ladies from 

B , the Misses Barton, whom I knew very well, 

an invitation from whom, through their brother, 
I had already feceived and declined, for the 
reason before specified. I began to draw compari- 
sons between our dull bachelor-party and the merry 
one beneath. Yet I could have withstood the bright 
eyes of the Misses Barton, even the sight of pigeon- 
pie, and the popping of champagne-corks, while we 
had nothing but bread and cheese, and sandwiches, 
and beer ; but there was another attraction which 
was irresistible, and this was a stranger young lady, 



THE DANGERS OF FLIRTATION. 151 

whom at first I had not noticed among the party, 
and towards whom my eyes now began to turn like 
those of the fascinated bird. 

" If she had indeed dropped from the clouds (as I 
was at first tempted to believe, in order to account 
for the suddenness of her appearance), she could 
hardly have displayed to my susceptible fancy a 
beauty more marvellous, Never before had I seen 
a blonde who so dazzled and impressed me at first 
sight. (For generally, I thought fair women insipid 
and deficient in piquancy.) Her hair was a golden 
yellow, her eyes a bright beaming blue, like the sun- 
lit heaven — as we see it, w T hich no painter, no, not 
even Claude can represent — her nose aquiline, her 
mouth small, and her teeth pearls. As she reclined 
on the grass below me, I studied every action; 
endeavoured to impress every detail of the position 
on my mind, that I might at a future time transfer 
it to canvas as an Undine or Virginia ' Oh,' cried 
I, inwardly, ' that I were a painter indeed, that I 
could depict that scene, and make the whole group, 
with the trees and river for a back-ground, all sub- 
servient to the chief figure — the blue- eyed beauty 
who has taken me captive, and thrown the veil of 
enchantment and delight over w r hat was merely 
pleasing before,' 

" While these thoughts were passing through my 
mind, the eldest Miss Barton looked up, and caught 
me in the act of ' glowring' down upon the happy 
party like an angel shut out of paradise. I observed 



152 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

her whisper to the beautiful stranger, who seemed 
to blush and appear in the very slightest possible 
degree confused ; and in the course of a minute, 
during which I watched her out of the tale of my 
eye (to use a vulgar expression), I perceived a 
furtive glance travelling towards me from those 
glorious orbs, which excited in me a strong desire to 
make the acquaintance of their fair possessor. 

" Shortly afterwards, young Percy Barton 
beckoned to me. I seized this opportunity to 
apologize to my bachelor friends, and beat a retreat ; 
and a few minutes saw me comfortably seated amid 
the circle which contained my magnet of attraction, 
whilst I could discern the envious glances with 
which the deserted ones up aloft pursued the 
recreant. c So Mr. St. Clare, 5 said Miss Barton, 
c you have at last condescended to prefer our society 
to that of your bachelor friends. Really we should 
feel very grateful to Miss Armour for procuring us 
such an acquisition. Misss Armour, Mr. St. Clare ; 
Mr. St. Clare, Miss Armour.' I hastened to dissi- 
pate Miss Armour's confusion and my own in a 
bumper of champagne ; and in spite of the quizzing 
we underwent from the merciless Miss Barton, I 
bent all my energies to make myself agreeable to 
my fair neighbour. And, vanity apart, none but 
the most unmitigated of muffs could have failed 
under the circumstance. Sitting next to a perfect 
paragon of beauty, on a glorious summer day, with 
only the branches of fine old trees between us 



THE DANGERS OF FLIRTATION. 153 

and the blue canopy of heaven, and the distance 
where 

" The river nobly foams and glows," 

with merry voices and laughter awakening the 
sylvan echoes, to say nothing, of course, of such 
material adjuncts as pigeon -pie, bottled porter, 
sherry, and champagne. 

"How happily the next four or five hours flew 
away ! The feasting was now over, and the united 
assemblage, which had freighted both steamers, were 
fraternizing on the stretch of intervale land. In 
one place foot -ball and various athletic sports 

engrossed the rival champions of A and B . 

In another, the enlivening strains of the band 
summoned all lovers of dancing; while distant 
groups and couples could be discerned wandering 
among the trees, preferring a bird's-eye view of the 
merry scene below, or forgetful of all else save their 
own earnest topics of conversation. 

" Mrs. Percy, an aunt of the Bartons, had been 

paying a visit at B , and she now pressed her 

young friend Miss Armour to come on with her to 

A for a day or two, as she was already half-way 

there. You may be sure I was not idle at this 

juncture. I painted A in glowing colours, as 

one of the fairest spots of creation, one which it 
would be a source of endless regret not to see. In 
short, so warmly and ably did I second Mrs. Percy's 
invitation, that Miss Armour at last assented to go 



154 GKINS AND WRINKLES. 

on in the c Arrow.' Never did I feel more inclined 
to sing a paean or hymn of triumph than when I heard 
the little monosyllable which decided this important 
matter* To my shame, however, I will confess that, 
added to the sudden interest I had conceived in Miss 
Armour, I derived a malicious pleasure in piquing 
Miss Myrtle, who I could perceive was a good deal 
nettled at the independence of one who had formerly 
been enrolled among her slaves. 

" As the hour for departure arrived, all was hurry- 
scurry and confusion. A report had been circulated 
by some malicious wags that the two boats were to 

change destinations ; that the ' Arrow ' from A 

was to proceed down the river to B- , and the 

* Swallow' to go on to A — — . The agony of mind 
which it caused to timid young, and nervous old 
ladies, lest they should be carried away from their 
respective homes, is indescribable. On every side 
were heard questions which no one seemed able to 
answer. Even after it was to all appearance gene- 
rally understood that the boats would return respec- 
tively to the places from which they had started, I 
experienced quite a fright on missing Miss Armour 
from the deck of the ' Arrow.' Under the impres- 
sion that she had repented her decision, I rushed on 
board the ' Swallow • to search for her. ' Ha, ha/ 
laughed Miss Barton, ( love has certainly made you 
blind, Mr. St. Clare, for there stands Miss Armour 
on the upper deck of your own boat.' 

" While the steamers lay alongside as if loth to 



THE DANGERS OF FLIRTATION. 155 

part, the repetition of huzzas, hand - shakings, and 
waving of handkerchiefs, made the leave-taking quite 
striking. People who were ordinarily reserved and 
cold, caught the infection for a time, — the genial 
feeling of the hour seemed to burst through all the 
shackles of worldly pride and conventionality, and 
pervade all from the highest to the lowest. At last, 
with a perfect storm of cheers which completely 
drowned for a time the air of ' Auld lang syne,' 
played by the band, the boats swung off, and went 
each on its respective course. A turn of the river 
soon hid the ' Swallow ' from our gaze ; but the 
passengers of the ' Arrow ' were in no mood to 
cherish fond regrets. While the band played quad- 
rilles and polkas for the fashionables on the upper 
deck, the violin at the prow stimulated to reels, 
hornpipes, &c. Every face wore an air of gaiety 
and good nature ; and those who did not dance them- 
selves looked on, pleased spectators of the scene. 
The shades of evening descended, but the laugh, the 
jest, the song, the dance continued, and the echoes 
of merriment from the rushing vessel were borne 
over the wide river to the ears of wondering cot- 
tagers on the banks, and startled the wild duck from 
her nest among the low-wooded islands which we 
passed. Thus have I dwelt minutely upon the 
commencement of my acquaintance with Annette 
Armour ; " and St. Clare heaved a deep sigh. 
***** 

" I beau'd Miss Armour about to several places, 



156 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

while she remained in A ; but the time was so 

short, that I had not sufficient opportunity of con- 
versing with her to satisfy myself whether she 
possessed those mental qualities, without which it is 
impossible to get *up a ' grande passion? After the 
lapse of a day or two she returned to the Misses 

Barton, at B . She had, however, given me an 

invitation, in her brother-in-law's name, to pay them 
a visit, if I felt inclined, along with Percy Barton, 
who frequently spent some weeks with them in 
summer. After her departure I felt very lonely, and 
began to think I must be really in love. Tom 
Thornton, who had been amazed at my ' confounded 
impudence? in striking up such a sudden acquaintance 
with a stranger, rallied me about my dejection, and 
assured me if I would only make an effort, I could 
banish Miss Armour's image with the same facility 
as others. I did not, however, agree with him, and 

took an early opportunity of going down to B , 

and visiting the Bartons, with whom I was very 
intimate. Much to my regret, Miss Armour, had 
just returned to her home. Percy, however, agreed 
to accompany me on a visit to her brother-in-law, if 
I wished to go. He was young, and did not suspect 
my design in going ; but I received a tremendous 
quizzing from his sisters. 

" Miss Armour's relations were good, simple, 
country people, just the kind of society that one 
is glad to escape to occasionally after the mawkish 
conventionality of town-life. Her brother-in-law, 



THE DANGERS OF FLIRTATION. 157 

Mr. Anderson, was a nice, frank, clever fellow, much 
superior to the farmers around him, and with literary- 
tastes which made him a pleasant and congenial 
companion. Percy was looked upon quite as one of 
the family ; and they gave me a sincere and hearty 
welcome. Their residence was most picturesque : 
a large roomy old farm-house, situate amid a grove 
of firs, at one extremity of an island, about eight 
miles long by four or five broad, distant about two 
miles from the main land. The bay in which this 
island (called Beaver Island) is situated, rivals in 
some measure the Lake of the Thousand Isles, con- 
taining at least five hundred islands and islets. 
Beaver Island is one of the oldest settled of any ; 
and there are still traces of the last war between the 
English and Americans, in the remains of a block- 
house or fort, and two worn-out honey-combed forty- 
two pounders. 

"On more intimate acquaintance with Miss 
Armour, I found no such qualities of the mind as 
to challenge the continuance of the admiration 
which I had at first felt towards her. She was 
amiable and gentle, and that was all — " 

K And I never want more in any woman/ 5 said 
Jack Aimless ; '* beg pardon for interrupting you ; go 
on, St. Clare." 

St. Clare continued, though somewhat surprised 
at the earnestness with which his companion had 
spoken. 

8i This would not have distressed me so much, as I 



158 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

did not fear any ill results to the lady, and I had 
found so agreeable a companion in the brother-in- 
law, and as there was, moreover, a pleasant little 
circle of young lady acquaintance on the island ; but 
what mortified and annoyed me a good deal, was to 
find that I was looked upon as an acknowledged 
suitor to Miss Armour. I regretted having placed 
myself in so false a position. I determined, how- 
ever, to let things take their course, trusting to 
extricate myself at the proper time, as I had done 
from similar scrapes. 

" There was a young lady on the island, an 
intimate friend of Miss Armour, named Matilda 
Martial ; and both in personal appearance and cha- 
racter her very opposite. Her figure was tall and 
commanding, her hair raven black, and her eyes dark 
and piercing, with a boldly beautiful countenance, 
which gave a very decided clue to the mind of its 
possessor. In manner and conversation she was 
strikingly superior to other girls on the island, which 
might be accounted for, from her having been 
educated at Troy, and having travelled and moved in 
society. Among other traits that I liked in Miss 
Martial was this, that she gave herself no airs of 
superiority over her country friends, amongst whom 
she reigned an acknowledged queen of fashion, as one 
who had actually spent a winter at New York, and 
a summer at Saratoga. She mixed in all our rustic 
games with the greatest alacrity, played f fox and 
geese/ 'hunt the thimble,' 'post office,' and 'blind 



THE DANGERS OF FLIRTATION. 159 

man's buff,' with as much spirit as any one, only I 
observed that she strongly set her face against kisses 
as forfeits. In this I admired Miss Martial's taste, 
for, making due allowance for the license of country 
manners (and I am well aware that many a good 
innocent country maiden thinks no more of a kiss 
than a town-bred damsel does of a squeeze of the 
hand) ; still, to a refined mind, kissing in company 
is a custom (to quote an absurdity written by a 
great poet) c more honoured in the breach than the 
observance.' " 

THE " CONTRACTED " MEETING. 

" I well recollect the first occasion of my meeting 
Miss Martial, and it has served to impress for ever, 
and render almost solemn, a reminiscence, which in 
itself is fraught with nothing but ludicrous emotions. 
You know something, Aimless, of our remote 
country districts ; and a residence for a short time 
in an American village will convince any one that 
man is a religious animal. Under all circumstances 
he desires to worship. In out-of-the-way rural 
districts, where missionaries of regular established 
forms of Christianity have not penetrated, this love 
of religion is a plant of wild growth, and frequently 
takes very uncouth forms. So much respect and 
esteem is lavished by the simple peasantry upon the 
profession of a spiritual teacher, that a white neck- 
cloth, as denoting a minister, is a passport to a 
hospitable welcome everywhere. At country inns 



160 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

it is not an unfrequent occurrence for the traveller 
who sports this emblem of the clerical office, to be 
told on asking for his bill, ' Oh, sir ! we never take 
money from gentlemen of your calling.' One very 
natural consequence is, that men of no particular 
religious education find it easier to make a living by 
preaching and praying, than by working. These 
nondescript professors being generally illiterate men 
themselves, command the comprehension and sym- 
pathy of the rural population, better than the more 
polished clergy of the Established Church ; and in a 
country where a living is easily got, and destitution 
is unknown, their demands on the hospitality of 
their congregations, in return for the spiritual food 
they dispense, is not felt as a serious inconvenience. 

"It is common for these black -coated gentry, 
when they find themselves in a neighbourhood where 
brotherly love and creature comforts abound, to get 
up what they call revivals of religion. Instead of 
the average length of two hours, the services are 
lengthened into 'protracted meetings,' where people 
are encouraged to make professions of religion, tell 
their experiences, sit on the penitent benches, and 
engage in other edifying exercises. It chanced that 
one of those "contracted meetings" (as my friend 
Anderson called them, and I thought the name very 
appropriate) was to take place on another island in 
the immediate neighbourhood, and accordingly we 
made up a party to witness it. Tranquilly we glided 
over that placid sea towards our destination. The 



THE DANGERS OF FLIRTATION. 161 

wind was fair and so light, that even Miss Armour, 
the most timid of all our party, did not object to 
our setting the sail. 

" The meeting-house was a rude wooden building, 
remarkably unattractive, both without and within. 
The men sat all on one side, and the women on the 
other. A box or pen, capable of holding a dozen 
people, served as reading-desk or pulpit. The 
minister who officiated snuffled through his nose, and 
said Lo-o-ard for Lord. He gave out the hymn, 
pitched the tune, and sang a great part of it himself, 
as no one seemed disposed to join in, in the early part 
of the evening. The sermon was a mixture of non- 
sensical rant and superficial appeal to the feelings — 
full of contradictions. It ended with a frantic 
denunciation of the terrors of hell-fire, which made 
the perspiration stream down the utterer's cheeks, 
and frightened some of the women, one of whom 
groaned, and was carried out fainting. When it was 
finished, the preacher mopped his face with his 
handkerchief, turned round in the pulpit to spit, and 
then sat down. 

si Then began the proper business of the ' pro- 
tracted' or 'contracted' meeting. Several black- 
coated sleek -looking men, with white neck -ties, 
dispersed among the congregation, whispering and 
talking in a low voice, and evidently urging indi- 
viduals to testify, tell their experience, &c. Occa- 
sionally, the one in the pulpit sang another solo to 
spirit up the unregenerate among the congregation 

m 



162 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

to the proper pitch of enthusiasm. At length, by 
degrees, one by one, people got up and spoke hesi- 
tatingly and briefly, often only a few unconnected 
words, and in such low tones as to be inaudible, and 
then resumed their seats, as if glad to have got it over. 
One of the preachers evidently appeared to think 
this method of testifying exceedingly slow, for he 
suddenly electrified me, at least, with the following 
words : — 

" ' Brethern and sistern, I don't kinder like this — 
this revival ain't the right thing yet — not by a long 
chalk. You don't testify as Christians had ought to, 
I suspicion the devil's got a hold of some of us — 
that's a fact. Best make a 'neffort, my friends, and 
shake him off.' 

" This pithy speech appeared to rouse the congre- 
gation. They all joined in the next hymn, and 
when it was finished, a man got up and favoured us 
with a rhapsody, of which I only recollect the 
following strange simile or illustration : — 

" ' Now, my dear brethren, do ye want to know 
what a true Christian is ? for a man may come so 
nigh to a true Christian, that unless you look consider- 
able sharp and close, you couldn't tell that he warn't a 
true Christian. Wall, now, I guess this just puts me 
in mind of a case in pint. Old Joey Parkes down 
to Slab City, undertook to imitate a " bumbly-bee,"* 
that was to be so like natur', you couldn't tell one 

* Humble-bee. 



THE DANGERS OF FLIRTATION. 163 

from the other. Well, he sot to work, and bein' 
considerable clever, when it was finished, I never see 
any thin' look so nat'ral and so ridic'lus like a bumbly- 
bee in my life. I swan it had the shape and the 
wings complete ; and several were took in — that's a 
fact. But this is the way you see, — when I corned 
to examine it I knowed it warn't a ra'al bumbly- 
bee — it hadnH got no yaller fuz on. Xow, my dear 
brethren, whenever you're in doubt if a man's a ra-al 
Christian or not, jest you watch him close, and see if 
he's got the a yaller fuz " or not.' 

" After this speaker had sat down, a young man 
stood up in his shirt sleeves, and in the coolest and 
most independent manner, began to tell his experi- 
ence, confessing that though he had been a great sinner, 
he was now in a state of grace. The following sum- 
mary will give you some idea of this testifier: — 

" ' Dear brethern and sistern, I guess it's a great 
comfort to all of you, as I feel it to be myself, to 
find myself in your midst this here blessed evening, 
'specially when I recollect what a desolate and de- 
praved character I used to was no longer agone than 
last spring. I s'pose there warn't a wilder young 
man to swear, and carry on in every bad way, in the 
whull village. Many's the night, and there's them that 
knows it here this evening, and why should I be 
ashamed to say it, I've lain drunk on the bridge, and 
if anything had happened to me then, what would 
have become of my precious soul I'd like to know. 
Oh, if the old devil ever had a hold of any one, he had 

m 2 



164 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

me then slick, and no mistake. But them times is past 
and gone, and that's why I feel so happy, to find myself 
a-standin' up and addressin' of you here in your 
midst this here evening. For my dear brethern and 
sistern, I can lay my hand on my heart and say, 1 am 
regenerate. Thanks to the Gospel and Deacon Elder, 
under the Lo-o-ard, I seen the error of my ways, and 
quit them. Fust I jined the total abstinence, then 
I took to tendin' meetin', and guv up all bad com- 
pany. Then I made a public profession of the 
Lo-o-ard, and then I felt my sins kinder drop off of 
my back like a burthen. That's why I feel so light 
and happy standin 9 here in your midst on this here 
evenin'. 

" ' Now clear brethern and sistern, I wish that every 
one that hears me would make up his mind to learn 
from actyal experience the refreshin' grace of true 
repentance. For, take my word for it, I knows the 
two conditions, and there's no comfort eq'al to bein' 
satisfied as to the state of your precious soul, to trustin' 
in the Lo-o-ard. But, my friends, heaven's a big 
place, and there's room for us all there — I don't want 
for to get there alone. I want to see my friends and 
neighbours there. I want to see all I see here to- 
night there. But, my friends, how are you going to 
git there if you don't take the right road ? It ain't 
no use to keep a thinkin' it's time to repent byme 
bye, and keep a puttin' of, and a puttin' of. No, yow'Jl 
never work it that way. But set to work, and begin 
to repent right away. Now's the appointed time, 



THE DAGGERS OF FLIRTATION. 165 

my dear brethern and sistern — this here very evenin' 
— this here very minute. The Lo-o-ard's a-callm' 
you through my v'ice. Come to Jesus ! come to 
Jesus V 

" ( Thank youbrother, thank you brother,'resounded 
from the preacher in acknowledgment of this very 
able testimony ; and after a hymn had been sung, 
and several others had spoken, a lull of some length 
took place, and then a woman, who had evidently 
been in a nervous state of indecision for some time, 
got up and began to speak in a very excited, tremulous 
manner, sobbing convulsively at every word. What 
she said was little to the purpose: it was a mere 
repetition of some such phrase as e I ain't ashamed to 
own my Lo-a-ard, to confess my Saviour, &c, &c. ? 
Hitherto there had been a strange mixture of the 
ludicrous in the proceedings, but the distress of this 
poor woman, w T ho thus mistook hysterical feelings for 
religion, was painful to witness, and our party thought 
it high time to leave the protracted meeting. 
***** 

"The first thing that drew my attention particu- 
larly to Miss Martial's intellectual superiority was a 
remark she made, on our progress home, in reply to 
Miss Armour, who stigmatized the scene we had just 
witnessed as ' wretched fanaticism.' 

"'After all,' said Miss Martial, i w T hy should w r e 
denounce these poor people as wretched fanatics, 
simply because their worship wants the appliances 
which lend dignity to the services of established 



166 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

churches. If religion does not consist in canting, it 
is certainly not in the lukewarmness of fashionable 
congregations. We cannot read each other's hearts. 
Sincerity of intention will doubtless render the hum- 
blest offering acceptable to God.' 

" 'This woman thinks for herself/ thought I ; but 
ere we reached home that night I was to receive 
other proofs of Miss Martial's superiority. The wind 
had risen, and there were evident symptoms that a 
storm was brewing. Still, as the distance was not 
great, we felt confident that we could make the run, 
and reach our haven, and so be snugly seated round 
a blazing wood-fire before it began. And here it 
was that the defects in Miss Armour began to strike 
me more forcibly than ever. I had only given her 
credit for that share of timidity which is considered 
so becoming in young ladies that many affect it who 
are constitutionally brave. But now I discovered 
that she was an arrant little coward." 

" Say that again, if you please," interrupted 
Aimless. 

"An arrant little coward, — why did you ask me 
to repeat it?" 

" I didn't quite hear you, that was all — pray go on," 
said his friend, and St. Clare continued. 

" First she flatly refused to go in the boat at all, 
until her sister and brother-in-law scolded her into 
compliance ; then she insisted that the sail should 
not be hoisted. 

" ' How can you be so childish and obstinate. 



THE DANGERS OF FLIRTATION. 167 

Annette/ said Anderson. e We shall never get 
home by rowing, and with this wind we shall be snug 
in the cove in an hour's time, and safe under cover 
before the storm breaks. What danger can there 
possibly be when I don't fasten the sail-rope, but 
hold it in my hand ready to let go ?' So Miss Annette 
was at length over-ruled, and sat down in the stern 
sheets beside Miss Martial. But it was to no purpose 
that the latter young lady, who was quite cool and 
collected, endeavoured to direct her attention to the 
actual beauty of the scene. Poor Miss Armour was 
too terribly frightened to have ideas for anything but 
the danger. She saw nothing to admire in the dark 
waves, occasionally tipped with a white crest, or in the 
phosphoric w T ake we left behind, or the rapid motion 
of our craft through the water, or the heavy clouds 
that sailed above us. 

" ( Good heavens ! what was that?' cried Annette. 

" 'Nothing, my love/ said Miss Martial, soothingly. 
*A flash of lightning, that's all.' 

" ' God ! we shall be all drowned,' screamed 
Annette; and she would have jumped up in her 
nervous excitement had she not been restrained by 
the encircling arms of Miss Martial. 

" ' Be quiet, little puss,' said her friend, ' there's 
no cause for fear — we have made two-thirds of our 
voyage already.' 

" ' Oh ! the boat does lean over so — oh ! if they'd 
only let down the sail/ 

•• \ There, there, — I'm going to do it to please you, 



168 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

you little coward/ said Anderson, in a rallying tone ; 
but he evidently thought it was high time to do so, 
as the wind had freshened considerably. The sail 
was accordingly furled, and we took to our oars. 

" The storm had now fairly begun — the flashes of 
lightning grew more vivid and frequent — the crashes 
of thunder more tremendous — and the rain descended 
in torrents. One of my fellow-rowers whispered to 
me, ' If we were only round the point,' We were 
fast approaching the headland, where I knew the 
danger to be real, for the tide meeting the wind 
caused a heavy sea for an open boat. What I dreaded 
most was that as the boat rose on the crest, and dived 
into the hollow of the waves, one or more of the 
ladies might lose their presence of mind, and stand 
up, in which case we might have been swamped. 
Annette Armour had now lost all command of her- 
self, and screamed aloud. I watched Anderson's 
face ; even he looked anxious — he was steering, and 
could only speak to Annette ; but his words fell 
unheeded on her ear. All the ladies were more or 
less frightened, with one exception — Miss Martial ; 
and had it not been for her, I believe that Miss 
Armour, in her fright, would have upset the boat. 
But Matilda Martial, finding that Annette was quite 
deaf to words, took her in her arms as if she had 
been a child, and held her with a gentle violence, so 
that the face of the terrified girl was hidden, being 
pressed against the bosom of her courageous friend, 
and she saw no longer the threatening waves. After 



THE DANGERS OF FLIRTATION. 169 

this poor Annette grew calmer, and soon, thank God, 
we weathered the point, and glided into comparatively 
smooth water. I don't think any of us were sorry 
to exchange our rocking boat, and our out-of-door 
experience of that wild night, for dry clothing and a 
cosy supper, and a chat round the fire ; though the 
young ladies grew very eloquent indeed on the 
romance of the affair, now that the danger was over. 

" I should have been well pleased to grow more 
intimate with Miss Martial, but though she wai 
frank to everybody else, there was a very decided 
stiffness and constraint in her manner towards me, 
which always repelled my advances. TThen Percy 
and I and the two young ladies were walking together, 
she received every little attention or common polite- 
ness I offered her with a manner which seemed to 
say plainly ' You had better keep such civilities for 
Miss«Armour.' At the same time if I took the hint, 
and devoted myself to Annette, I could observe Miss 
Martial listening superciliously to all the remarks, ail 
the little nothings I communicated to that young 
lady, and noticing every little trivial gallantry as 
though she were treasuring up evidence to convict 
me of insincerity. 

iC I did not know enough of Miss Martial to account 
for this conduct, and I used to puzzle myself in trying 
to solve the problem. Has she heard my fatal repu- 
tation of a flirt, and does she despise me as a heartless 
trifler with the affections of her sex ; does she fathom 
my indifference to Miss Armour, and hate me for 



170 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 



making her friend a victim ; or is she a woman after 
all, and only a little jealous and annoyed at my bad 
taste in preferring the blonde to the brunette ? None 
of these solutions entirely satisfied me. Perhaps, I 
thought, she is actuated by all three, and uncon- 
sciously, for who can perfectly analyze his or her 
own motives. Then the thought would come to me, 
what a triumph to conquer her aversion, to punish 
her rash judgment and the unfounded prejudice she 
had taken against me, by making her love me, and 
then repaying her scorn with interest. It was an 
ungenerous thought, I confessed it to myself, but it 
would come and nestle at my heart, when I heard 
her biting sarcasm indirectly levelled at me, though 
couched generally against roues and male coquettes. 
Then would come better, gentler ideas, that she who 
now looked so disdainfully as she heard me utter 
compliments which did not come from the heart, 
might learn to know and appreciate me more truly 
— that the eye which flashed so indignantly might 
possibly be able to shed a melting glance — that this 
fierce nature might be tamed by love — that possibly 
we might be, after all, congenial spirits. 

" Nevertheless, despite the want of confidence be- 
tween us, such is the freemasonry which unites minds 
of any similarity in taste or cultivation, that I found 
myself while speaking to Miss Armour, watching 
involuntarily to catch the glance of intelligence and 
sympathy which, notwithstanding her coldness, often 
flashed from Miss Martial's eyes. And by little and 



THE DANGERS OF FLIRTATION. 171 

little I perceived, or fancied that her reserve was 
diminishing. On one occasion, when I had been on 
the island about a month, we were all spending the 
evening at Old Mrs. Martial's, Miss Martial's grand- 
mother, and at tea-time the conversation took a turn 
beyond Miss Armour's depth ; but Miss Martial 
listened with sparkling eyes, and bore a part in the 
conversation, which evinced a sound judgment, and 
a cultivated understanding. The subject was the 
emancipation of women ; and Anderson, though I 
think in his heart he agreed with me, took a pleasure 
in taking an opposite view of the question, and 
drawing me out by every means in his power. I 
warmed with my subject, and spoke earnestly my 
own conviction, and therefore I presume I must have 
expressed myself with tolerable fluency. Though the 
majority of the company evidently did not understand 
a single position I had advanced, and though an old 
maid present grew perfectly indignant at what she 
called my wish to unsex women, yet I was pleased to 
see, that independently of Anderson (who w r as 
laughing in his sleeve the whole time, both at my 
vehemence, and the misapprehension of my audience,) 
Miss Martial not only comprehended, but cordially 
approved my sentiments. Never before this evening 
had we conversed so frankly, or appeared on a footing 
of such sincerity. 

" When we took our departure, Miss Martial put on 
her straw-hat and shawl to accompany us a little way. 



172 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

At high-water, the peninsula on which the house 
was situated, became a sort of lesser island, com- 
municating with the greater by means of a narrow 
breakwater, about thirty yards in length. Along 
this we took our way, the waves rolling to our feet 
with that beautiful phosphoric emission of light which 
so often occurs in America. I offered my hand to 
Miss Martial to conduct her along the narrow path, 
fully expecting a refusal ; but to my agreable surprise 
it was accepted. Delighted with my good fortune, 
I determined to make the most of Miss Martial's 
relenting humour, and while Percy was walking with 
Miss Armour, I took the opportunity of expressing 
a regret that we had not earlier become better 
acquainted, and that any coolness had existed 
between us. 

" < It is your own fault, Mr. St. Clare.' 

"'Why, pray, Miss Martial? I am innocent of 
giving you any cause to dislike me.' 

" ' No direct cause, certainly, unless playing with 
the feelings of a dear friend may be deemed such/ 

" ' That is a serious charge, Miss Martial ; in what 
way am I playing with Miss Armour's feelings ? I 
have never spoken of love to her. 5 

" It may have been fancy, but I thought I could 
detect an increased joyousness of tone when Miss 
Martial next spoke, as if she was pleased to hear 
the avowal I had made. 

" ' Why are you here then if you do not love her ? 



THE DANGERS OF FLIRTATION. 173 

You know well that everybody here thinks you 
engaged, and when you go away and forget her, what 
will become of her ? ' 

w ' Miss Martial,' said I, choking with remorse, 
c if you really are Miss Armour's friend, let me speak 
with you alone to-morrow evening.' 

u She scanned me closely for half-a-minute. 6 You 
really wish it ? Be it so. I shall be at the Old Fort 
to-morrow evening about nine o'clock.' 

" On the following night, at the appointed hour, 
I found her waiting for me, seated on one of the old 
rusty guns . . . God!" exclaimed St. Clare, with 
sudden vehemence, "why did no misgiving, no sudden 
ray of the future, enlighten me at that moment, and 
make me turn back from that meeting, and fly the 
island at once. But I will not anticipate, I will tell 
my tale methodically." He paused awhile to control 
his emotion, and then continued : " As I approached 
and beheld her sitting there in the calm moonlight, 
looking so beautiful, beside those engines of war, with 
the glorious sea for a back-ground, an impulse of 
strong ardent admiration seized me. Ah ! thought 
I, if I might but make love to her ; but she would 
despise me if I did so. 

" After some ordinary expressions of salutation had 
passed, — 

M ' Now,' said the strange girl, ' what have you to 
say of such importance ? Can you defend yourself? 
Are you not a general flirt ? ' 



174 GKINS AND WRINKLES. 

" * Miss Martial,' said I, ' tell me, were you in jest 
or earnest in what you said last night? 3 

u e In earnest.' 

" ' You think then that I am compromising Miss 
Armour. What would you advise me to do ?. That 
you have been deceived in my character all along, 
your manner has too well informed me. You have 
done me injustice, however,. if you believe me capable 
of premeditated trifling with another's feelings. I 
have behaved foolishly, very foolishly, and selfishly 
perhaps, but not wickedly. May I ask you, as Miss 
Armour's friend and well-wisher, to be my confidant 
in this delicate affair, and instruct me how to repair 
my error before further mischief ensues*' 

" ' In strict confidence then,' replied Miss Martial, 
do you or do you not love Annette ? ' 

" ' I have the utmost esteem and respect for Miss 
Armour/ I said, ' but it would be false in me to 
pretend to a warmer feeling.' 

" Miss Martial maintained silence for some time, 
while she gazed steadily out at sea. At length she 
said slowly, — 

* ' What a desparate flirt you must be, to take so 
much pains about a girl about whom you do not 
care.' 

"' As we are speaking confidentially,' replied I, s I 
admit that on first making Miss Armour's acquain- 
tance, I certainly did admire her, but — ' 

" ' Further intimacy has healed your wounded 



THE DANGERS OF FLIRTATION. 175 

heart,' she interrupted, in a tone of irony. ' And 
is it thus with every attachment formed by Mr. 
St. Clare?' 

" ' It has been hitherto,' said I ; ' but I live in hopes 
of one day meeting a woman who will so charm me 
that I cannot forget' 

" 'It will require a paragon to take you captive.' 

" ' You natter me.' 

" c No, seriously ; you have seen our rustic society, 
you cannot believe that we have many visitors of 
your abilities and cultivation of mind.' 

" ' But/ said I, ' if I have had the misfortune to 
make an impression upon Miss Armour, an impres- 
sion which I do not reciprocate — .' 

" ' Annette is most amiable,' said Miss Martial, 
' but to confess the truth, she is like somebody else, 
very susceptible and capricious in her attachments. 
In short, in my opinion, her heart is made of wax. 
Don't be offended,' she added, scrutinizing me 
closely, 6 no disparagement to your powers as a 
lady-killer — she loves you very much just now, but 
you must not imagine she will break her heart for 
you. Oh, the vanity of your sex!' she continued 
after a pause, during which she had kept her large 
dark eyes fixed on me. c Confess now that your 
pride is hurt, that you are exceedingly disappointed 
to hear that you are not to have a victim, that the 
poor girl will be able to forget one who admits he 
has already ceased to admire her.' 

"'By no means,' said I; 'even your irony is 



176 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

delicious to me, for you have taken a load from my 
heart. You can understand the dilemma in which I 
have been placed ; I thought of departing suddenly, 
of posting a letter to myself, informing me of the 
illness of a dear friend, of — ' 

" Notwithstanding the great command which Miss 
Martial usually exerted over her features^ it was 
evident that, from some cause or other, she felt 
troubled; she could not suppress an involuntary 
start, and her voice trembled, as she said with some 
vehemence, — 

" 6 So you were going to fly, Mr. St. Clare. You 
could selfishly depart when the affair became 
(i ennuyant" — when there was risk of compromising 
yourself, and leave a poor girl to die, to break her 
heart — ' 

" ' My dear Miss Martial, you are jesting with me. 
Did you not say just now that Annette would find 
no trouble in forgetting rue ? ' 

" ' True, true,' replied Miss Martial, ' with signs 
of confusion ; ' but you did not know this till I told 
you. 5 

" ' Perhaps I was not so thoroughly convinced of it 
as I am now,' I replied ; ' but I have had good 
opportunity of judging Miss Armour's character too, 
and I had perhaps arrived at the same conclusion as 
yourself. But, under the circumstances, what do 
you recommend, — an immediate departure, or the 
reverse ? * 

" ' Mr. St. Clare must be a better judge of that 



THE DANGERS OF FLIRTATION. 177 

than I am, and will do just what pleases himself. It 
is growing cold ' (wrapping her shawl round her), 1 1 
must bid you good night.' 

" ' Then you will not advise me ; ' said I, earnestly, 
'but perhaps may — I hope we shall — resume this 
discussion another night. I am anxious to pursue the 
right course, and shall feel certain of doing so if I 
have your approval.' 

"'I don't know; we shall see; I must bid you 
good-bye now— -no, thank you' (as I offered my 
escort), 'the tide is down, I shall not want your 
assistance over the breakwater,' 

" I knew she meant what she said, so I sat down on 
the gun and watched her form diminishing in the 
distance, till it disappeared in her own home. 

M Not to lengthen out my story, the ice once broken, 
Miss Martial and I became very good friends. By 
insensible degrees, as our intimacy ripened, a 
slight, a very slight coolness grew up between me 
and Miss Armour ; but her brother-in-law continued 
frank as ever, and pressed me so cordially to continue 
my stay for the duck-shooting, which was now 
beginning, that I permitted myself to be persuaded, 
though I confessed to myself that the great magnet 
of attraction which bound me to the island, was 
now Miss Martial. Our tete-a-tetes at the Old Fort 
were frequent. Here we were secure from in- 
trusion, because a rumour had gone abroad in the 
island that the place was haunted, and none of the 
girls (Miss Martial excepted) would visit it after 

N 



178 GEINS AND WRINKLES. 

night- fall. The topic of the first evening was never 
resumed. Probably Miss Martial saw that I was 
gradually, but surely weaning myself from Annette. 
We found ample subjects for conversation on 
literary, artistic, and general questions, having a 
common interest for both of us ; and what a charm 
these intellectual communings with & woman of 
sense have, beyond all the idle flirtation in the 
world! At times I felt a strong inclination to fancy 
that Miss Martial was growing partial to me, as well 
as my society ; but a suspicion that she might be, 
after all, playing a deeper game, and feigning a 
fondness she did not feel, merely to see how far my 
coxcombry would carry me, checked all approaches 
to love-making. 

" Thus glided by six delightful weeks. One night 
we met for our last tete-a-tete, by the Old Fort, and 
our last stroll on the sands. I was to leave the island 
the following day. Often as I had walked with this 
woman alone before, never had I ventured on a single 
pressure of the hand, a single word of idle gallantry, 
such as I had addressed to hundreds of others on a 
first acquaintance. Such had been the intellectual 
intoxication I enjoyed in her conversation — such the 
effect produced by her natural dignity and frankness 
of manner, that I had not time to think of love. 
Other women that I had seen, by their superficial 
show of accomplishments, by their absence of any 
deeper, worthier bond of union, had provoked me, as it 
were, to take refuge in the idle w r ords of common- 



THE DANGERS OF FLIRTATION. 179 

place gallantry. But of Matilda Martial, so help me 
Heaven, I had thought as a sister — as a superior, 
holier nature. Walking by her side on that sea- 
shore, I had felt elated indeed, but by no common, 
every-day, conceited gratification. I was realizing 
some of my poetic visions of happiness. An angel- 
woman was elevating, purifying me. As Numa re- 
turned to the society of mortal men, strengthened, 
ennobled, exalted, from his conferences with the divine 
nymph, so did I return a better, stronger, more 
ethereal being from these tete-a-tetes with my Egeria. 
O ye beautiful women, constantly thinking and 
plotting about marriage, ye know not what gorgeous 
hopes are extinguished when stern experience un- 
folds to men of poetic natures the difference between 
what ye seem, and what ye are. 

" To-night, then, as I felt her hand upon my arm, 
how I cursed the reputation of a general admirer I 
had obtained. Though on the eve of parting with 
this woman for ever, I dared not tell her the solemn 
conviction of my own soul, — how far nobler, better, 
more beautiful I thought her than any other I had 
yet seen ; for she would deem them but the words of 
course which I had so often used before, and would 
scorn me, and part from me with anger and con- 
tempt. Imagine, then, my surprise, when Miss 
Martial interrupted my silent communings with 
myself, by saying abruptly, * Edward St. Clare, 
what do you think of me ? ' 

s " 'Edward St. Clare?' what could that mean ? She 

N 2 



180 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

was not the sort of woman to utter idle rhapsodies, 
too. Was she joking? or was she — could it be 
possible that I had undervalued my own powers of 
pleasing even her? She continued, — 

" ' With some men I should occupy a very false 
position. Do you despise me in your heart ? Do 
you believe I bad any interested motives in weaning 
you from Miss Armour? Could you deem me 
actuated by any other object than sincere regard for 
my friend, in sparing her the pangs of unrequited 
affection ? ' 

" In my confusion, I said something, I don't know 
what, but it was to the effect that I had every con- 
fidence in the sincerity and magnanimity of her 
motives. 

" ' Thank you for that, Mr. St. Clare ; I did not 
like that you should go, and misconstrue me on that 
point. This is the last time we shall be alone 
together — you go to-morrow.' 

" ' O, Miss Martial ! ' I began, c do not imagine 
that I can ever forget — ' 

" ' Hush ! ? she exclaimed, and her voice quivered 
a little ; ' do not destroy the recollection I would 
fain have of you — do not let your last words to me 
be those of idle flattery and compliment.' 

"In my eagerness to defend myself from this 
charge, I ventured to do what I had never done 
before. I passed my arm round her waist, and made 
her sit down beside me on the gun. The exertion I 
used was so gentle, that the slightest movement on 



THE DANGERS OF FLIRTATION. 181 

her part would have counteracted it ; but she made 
none. The words, s I love you/ were on my tongue, 
but my heart was too full at the moment to speak. 
To my surprise, she broke the silence. 

" ' Edward — Mr. St. Clare — tell me, then, you do 
not despise me, that you do not think meanly of me, 
because I have broken through the conventionalities 
of the world in these interviews.' 

"' Despise you, indeed! I should think not,' w T as 
all I could say, though I felt so much more. 

" tf And you mean it — you really mean it ? Oh ! 
you have made me so happy ; for I feared sometimes 
that I had done very wrong, and that you would 
think me deficient in delicacy and reserve ; and I 
wished — I wished to justify myself with you, 
Edward St. Clare, especially, before all others, 
because I did you wrong — grievous wrong. I 
judged of you at first sight, biassed as I was by the 
false reports I had heard of you. I, a poor weak 
woman, one of an inferior sex, dared to rush to a 
conclusion about you, a man, on the strength of the 
opinion of a few paltry girls, — yes, I thought you 
were heartless, and worldly, and unfeeling — I thought 
you were that basest of all things, a flirt, — you, with 
your large and cultivated mind, your ardent, poetic 
temperament, your lofty faith in our sex, your 
extended views on all subjects, — you, to whom I owe 
the only really happy intellectual moments I have 
spent in this island, the happiest I have ever spent. 
— I could not let you go till I had told you this, till 



182 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

I had asked your forgiveness, and made amends by 
confessing, even to my own humiliation, the estima- 
tion in which I did and do hold you.' 

" Good heavens ! did I hear aright? was I awake? 
Could this be the same Matilda Martial, who, six 
short weeks ago, had been so cold and supercilious, 
and whose pride I had wished to humble. Well, 
I had had my wish, for could I doubt after the words 
she had spoken, that she loved me ? But what need 
of words to betray the secret? Did that eye, that 
once flashed so indignantly, dare to meet mine? — 
and did it not now look far more beautiful, though 
veiled by its long lashes, and only shedding sidelong 
melting glances, that said plainly, ' I love you ! 9 
Yes, that hitherto free, unfettered, wild spirit was 
tamed by the master-passion ; and did I now feel 
inclined to show my power, and return for love 
indifference and cold scorn ? No, no ! — how had 
we both changed in our feelings toward one another ! 

" ' What have I done— what have I said ! ' she 
exclaimed, as she started hastily from my embrace, 
and the kiss which I pressed upon her lips. 

" You have made me the happiest of men, 
Matilda/ 5 I exclaimed; 'for you have betrayed your 
secret, that you love me." 

" With a cry of maiden bashfulness, she sprang 
away, and fled like a fairy along the sands. I 
pursued ; but as I gained upon her, she turned and 
forbade me to approach, with a friendly but firm 
farewell gesture. She vanished from my sight; 



THE DAGGERS OF FLIRTATION. 183 

and but for the small foot-prints in the sands — t foot- 
prints,' which in a short space of time the advancing 
tide would obliterate — all that had passed might 
have seemed a dream. 

"On the following morning I received this note 
from Miss Martial: — 

"' Edward, dear Edward, — how strange it seems 
to write so to any one. But I may to you now ; 
and I must write. I must tell you something on 
paper which I could never say. Why is it that such 
a longing impulse comes over our sex at times to 
emulate the superior frankness of yours. To bind 
ourselves by a written confession, so that there may 
be no misconception about so solemn a thing as the 
exchange of two hearts ? I offer you then, Edward, 
a heart, my heart — well, perhaps, it is not much to 
offer ; and yet it seems a fearful thing to let one's 
heart go out of one's own keeping. Take it, or 
reject it, Edward. I need not say, do not keep me 
in suspense, do not excite hopes which will never 
be fulfilled ; for you are too manly, too noble for 
that. I know you now, and no one shall dare with 
impunity to disparage you in my presence. Write, 
then, dear Edward, but ponder well first. Is my 
heart to beat for you alone ? I will wait as 
patiently as I can for your decision. If I am to 
be nothing more than your dear friend, then I will 
try and bear it cheerfully ; but if once you love me, 
Edward, then remember you must love me always. 



184 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

Oh, yes! you must, you must — or — something very 
dreadful will happen to me, that I am sure of. I 
dare not see you again before you go, so I bid 
you farewell here. God be with you. 

"< Matilda Martial.' 
" € P. 8. — Though I cannot trust myself to 
another parting, yet I will watch you through the 
telescope. There is a, nice gentle breeze at pre- 
sent, but be sure you don't make the sail fast, for 
fear a sudden squall should come on. I will not 
shut the telescope till I see you safe in Southport. 

"<M. M.' 

" And what reply did I make to this touching, 
straightforward letter? I covered two sheets of 
paper with vows and protestations of love. I 
wrote well and truly from my own heart, for I 
felt madly in love with her. I said that I dreaded 
a parting interview even as much as she did, even 
for so short an absence; for I fully intended to 
return in one month, after I had transacted some 
necessary business which took me to New York. 
Oh, that letter, that fatal and deadly letter ! When 
I think of how I falsified every word I wrote, 
every vow, every assurance of eternal love — what 
superlative agony I was preparing for this glorious 
woman, who scorned to leave me in suspense a 
moment , who trusted so implicitly in my integrity, 
my constancy, my truth — " 

Here St. Clare become painfully excited; and it 



THE DANGERS OF FLIRTATION. 185 

was only after a lapse of half-an-hour, during which 
he had paced rapidly to and fro, the cool air fanning 
his burning brow, that he was able to continue, 

" Oh, Aimless," he went on, "it is torture to dwell 
on this part of my story. Would you have be- 
lieved now that I could have acted towards this 
angel the very part which she exonerated me from 
performing — that I could have played with this 
heart which she offered me so readily, yet with 
fear and trembling, and such a timid prayer that 
I would reject or refuse it at once ; — but stay, 
let me explain the manner of my guilt, that you 
may not think me quite a fiend. 

" When I came on to New York I was plunged 
as usual into a round of fashionable gaieties and 
dissipation. Who ever came out of the wretched 
whirl of society improved by it ? What fixed 
and worthy aim, what earnestness of purpose, 
ardent hopes, lofty thoughts, moral feelings, or 
good principles are not injured, deadened, and more 
or less destroyed by its baneful, cold-blooded, sneer- 
ing, worldly influence ? I had intended to write from 
New York immediately on my arrival. I put this off 
from day to day: then I thought, as I purposed 
returning to the island so shortly, it would hardly 
be necessary to write at all ; it would be a pleasanter 
surprise to Matilda to pop in upon her without any 
previous intimation. But by the time a month had 
elapsed, I had begun to regard my relations toward 
Miss Martial herself in a very different light. Now 



186 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

that I was away from her, that I was not influenced 
by the charms of her society and the witchery of 
her beauty, I could look at the matter in a much , 
more worldly point of view. Was I so certain 
of her sincerity after all? Had she not very skil- 
fully managed to worm out of me an avowal that 
I did not love Miss Armour? She disclaimed 
all personal motives in this, but had it not resulted 
after all in securing me as as a lover for herself? 
Then her apparent frankness and our unconventional 
tete-a-tetes 9 her impulsive speaking, and writing the 
very things which I had admired and loved her for, 
which made her seem so different from other women, 
—might not these also be viewed from a very opposite 
point of view ? Were they in reality virtues, or 
defects ? All these wretched, unworthy suspicions, 
I must do myself the poor justice to say, were not 
originated by myself, but were the opinions of an 
intensely prudent, matter-of-fact, narrow-minded 
friend, whom I had applied to for advice, taking 
care to put the case in a general way, and not 
betraying any confidence. And yet I should take 
no credit to myself for this ; for why did I doubt ? 
Had my love been like hers, I should never have 
admitted the first faint misgiving. 

" Well, well, by such sophistical arguments, I en- 
deavoured to deaden the stings of conscience, to find 
a refuge from self-reproach, by trying to think her 
as heartless as myself, — that time would have its 
usual effect in enabling us to forget each other; yet, 



THE DANGERS OF FLIRTATION. 187 

occasionally, there would come a sudden reaction, 
when I found myself whispering the words of 
flattery and compliment to, or listening to the lisped 
nonsense of women, oh, how greatly her inferiors ! 
Then, I would resolve to write — but how write after 
such a lapse? — how make excuses for my neglect? 
False pride carried the day, and I plunged the 
deeper into dissipation to drown remorse. 

"From time to time I received letters from 
Anderson, which kept me apprized of the general 
state of affairs on the island. I learned that Miss 
Armour had suffered a little on my departure, but 
was now receiving a great deal of attention from a 
gentleman whose name was not mentioned. Little 
or nothing was said of Miss Martial, between whom 
and Miss Armour's family a coolness appeared to 
have grown up since I had left for New York. 
Rumours I found had circulated, both at the island 

and B , that I had amused myself by trifling 

with the affections both of Miss Armour and Miss 
Martial, and an anonymous letter which I received 
to this effect tended still more to alienate me from 
Miss Martial, as the hand-writing seemed to 
correspond exactly with that in her letter ; and who 
else could have written it ? The writing was not a 
bit like Miss Armour's, and, besides, I had never 
been on such a confidential footing with her as with 
Miss Martial. 

" I think nearly a year had elapsed, and I had 
now become so completely callous and heartless from 



188 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

the lessons of insincerity I daily received in society, 
that I had quite forgotten the whole affair, and if I 
ever did recall it to mind, it was to laugh heartily at 
my having ever been so green as to believe in a 
woman's love ; when I was startled from my criminal 
indifference by another anonymous letter, which 
came upon me like a thunder-clap. It reached me 
just as I was stepping into a cab to go to a large 
ball in Fifth Avenue. It ran thus : < If Mr. St. 
Clare wishes to see his victim once more, while yet 
in life, let him make all haste to Southport.' Almost 
frantic with the mysterious horror of this sudden 
intimation, I set off for Southport. I knew that the 
letter must refer either to Miss Armour or Mi&s 
Martial ; but which, and why was the information so 
sudden ? Could it be a fatal accident ? Then I 
remembered, what the sudden shock had hitherto 
hindered me from recollecting, that about a fortnight 
previous, I had received a letter from Anderson 
which, as it had reached me at an occupied moment, 
I had thrust into my pocket unread. 

"With trembling hands, I unfolded this letter 
and read — Great God! my worst misgivings were 
realized. The letter fell from my hands as my eyes 
caught this paragraph : — 

" ' By the way, Miss Martial, I am sorry to say, 
is in a rapid decline, and, I understand, given over 
by the doctors.' 

" As I stooped to pick up Anderson's letter, I 
observed another small billet which had slipped out 



THE DANGERS OF FLIRTATION. 189 

from his envelope. I knew the hand-writing in a 
moment ; it was from her. It ran thus : — 

" ' Dear Edward, they say I am not to live. I, 
therefore, have begged Mr. Anderson, w T ho knows 
your address, to enclose you this farewell line. Oh, 
Edward, I do not mean to reproach you, but I 
cannot leave this world with a lie on my lips. They 
cannot tell what is the matter with me, but I know, 
I told you in my letter, near a year ago, that it was 
a fearful thing to give one's heart out of one's own 
keeping. I fear the proverb is true, that one alone 
loves, the other merely tolerates affection. I remem- 
ber now these lines of Balzac : " Si jamais vous aimez, 
gardez Men voire secret ! Ne livrez pas avant $ avoir 
bien su a qui vous ouvrirez voire cceur?* Your letter 
made me so very happy. I thought you loved me. 
I still think you must have loved me when you 
wrote. Ah, why write so soon ? w T hy not take 
longer time to think ? Read my letter over again, if 
you have it still. I warned you, dear Edward, that 
if you loved me, you must love me always — " or 
something very dreadful would happen to me" I fear 
you thought them words of course, but now you 
will know that they are not so. I am very weak ; 
I cannot write more : and do not think, dear love, 
that I write this reproachfully. It is only to show 

* " If ever you love, hide your secret closely. Do not 
yield it before you know well to whom you are about to open 
your heart." 



190 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

you that I die loving you as much as ever. God 
bless you in this world, and that to which you 
will one day follow me. 

iCi P.S. — I should like to see you if you could 

come — but I fear I shall not live so long. Perhaps 

it is better not. I have prayed regularly for you, 

Edward ; and I pray God now to bless you. Amen. 

" ' Yours in death, as in life, 

"< Matilda Martial.' 

"When I arrived in Southport, the bell was 
tolling for a funeral. There was no need to inquire 
whose it was. A conversation which I casually 
overheard in the street informed me that she was 
dead. I staggered to an inn ; and still the dreadful 
bell kept tolling. I talked so incoherently that a 
medical man w r as sent for. I was put to bed, I 
believe, by main force, for I was bent upon attend- 
ing the funeral ; and for some days I lay on my 
back delirious. When I arose, weak as a child, 
I ordered a carriage to take me to the Southport 
burial ground, for I knew there were none buried 
in the island. 

" They told me in what direction the grave was, 
and I insisted upon entering alone. I was so weak 
that I was obliged now and then to crawl on my 
hands and knees. I was not long in finding the 
new-made grave. No tombstone had yet been 
erected; but two staves were stuck into the earth, 
and on that at the head were carved the letters 



THE DANGERS OF FLIRTATION. 191 

M. M. I lay down at full length on the grave ; 
vague thoughts came over me. Why was all this — 
could it not all be undone — I had loved this woman, 
and she had loved me — ay, loved me as often I had 
hoped and prayed that I might be loved by woman, 
and — and — we might have been so happy together — 
and she was dead, and 7" had murdered her I Then 
my thoughts grew more and more confused. I 
remember shrieking out something, I know not 
what — then a space of time, long or short I cannot 
tell — and then a faint, indistinct perception of people 
trying to lift me up and bear me away, while I 
screamed and clung to the grave, and grasped 
handfuls of the mould — and then unconsciousness 
again, till I woke up in my bed at the inn with the 
doctor standing over me, and — and — " 

***** 

St. Clare had fallen into the arms of his friend, 
and lay weeping there like a child. Aimless, too, 
wept from sympathy. 

" Oh, my friend/' continued St. Clare, after a 
pause, and w r ith a broken voice, " since then I have 
been wandering about like a restless spirit. I have 
travelled in the Southern States ; I have even made 
a voyage to England ; but it was of no use : I 
could not banish memory. Something draw T s me 
towards the island. I must see the old block-house, 
and all the places where we were so happy, and 
her grave once more, and then — but, good heavens, 
Aimless, what is the matter with you ! " 



192 



GRINS AND WRINKLES. 



Aimless was trembling, as if with suppressed 
emotion, and yet the expression on his face was a 
puzzle ; it told of sympathy for his friend, and 
it was not sadness, either. 

"I will tell you," he replied, "when you are a 
little calmer. Lean on my arm— let us take a 
turn or two among the trees." 

"You noted me this evening," said St. Clare. 
" You saw the shifts to which I was put to cheat 
thought for awhile. You see what a burden life 
is. What— what have I to live for ?" 

" Much, much," replied Aimless ; " I do not say 
repentance, for you have repented already, but — for 
restitution, for compensation, for — " 

" What mean you," returned St. Clare. " How 
can I ever make compensation, w T hen she is dead 
and gone ? and do you think that I could ever do 
violence to the memory of that angel by speaking 
words of love to another woman ? " 

"You misunderstand me — be firm, St. Clare. 
Have you not seen from certain symptoms of 
interest that I betrayed, that I was not altogether 
unacquainted with Beaver Island — with Miss 
Armour— and — and — Miss — " 

" With Miss Martial ! — well — well — why do you 
look at me so singularly. Great God ! I thought 
you sympathized with me ; but — " 

" Now, for heaven's sake, be calm, St. Clare," 
cried Aimless, seizing him by both hands; "let me 
feel your pulse ; so — now— answer me, did you go 



THE DANGERS OF FLIRTATION. 193 

on the island ? Did you see Anderson, or Miss 
Armour, or any of Miss Martial's relatives at the 
time you were ill at Southport under the impression 
that she was dead, and that you had seen her grave ? " 
How can we describe accurately the cry of surprise 
which burst from St, Clare on hearing these words — 
the wondering looks, the rapid, unconnected ques- 
tions — the skilful, masterly manner in which Aimless 
managed his friend, and unfolded to him, by degrees, 
the strange, strange, dazzling, almost overwhelming 
truth. No, we cannot do it ; we must (whether we 
choose or not) leave it to the reader's imagination. 
But it is our duty, without wishing in any way to 
destroy the effect of the moral of this tale, to 
remove the sad impression from the reader's mind, 
by a brief statement of the communication made by 
Aimless to St. Clare. After having then judiciously 
prepared his friend, he broke to him the startling 
intelligence that he had remained under a delusion 
for two years, and had been premature in believing 
Matilda Martial to be dead. Thus it was : a Miss 
Martial had died at that time, and it was her grave 
he had visited ; but it was a Mary Martial, a cousin 
of Matilda, and the mistake of confounding the 
two had been made (whether intentionally or not 
was uncertain) by the writer of the two anonymous 
letters, Miss Myrtle — the same young lady who 
had been piqued at St. Clare's utter neglect of 
her at the pic-nic, and had taken this plan of 
revenging herself; and St. Clare's short stay at 

o 



l9£ GRINS ANI> WRINKLES. 

Southport had prevented him from seeing any of 
his acquaintance from the island and learning the 
truth: that Miss Martial had indeed been dan- 
gerously ill, and given over, as her own farewell 
letter to St. Clare avouched, but had quite recovered, 
and was now (wonder of wonders ! ) actually in 
New York along with Miss Armour and Mr. and 
Mrs. Anderson, and shortly going to act in the 
capacity of bridesmaid to that young lady, who was 
going to be married to no less a person than Mr. 
John Aimless himself. 



At dawn that morning, St. Clare left the battery 
with his friend Aimless, a very different man from 
the wretched, unhappy, hopeless being he had 
entered it. Aimless made him accompany him to 
his own house, administered a sedative, and saw him 
in a calm, refreshing slumber before he himself 
retired to rest. 

***** 

When, six weeks afterwards, Mr. Aimless became 
a Benedick, there was this departure from the 
programme, as he had communicated it to his 
friend St. Clare that memorable night on the 
battery. Miss Martial did not act as bridesmaid, 
for she and Miss Armour were both brides, on that 
occasion ; and while Annette became Mrs. Aimless, 
Matilda Martial gave her hand to St. Clare, and 
for ever redeemed him from "the dangers of flirtation." 



195 



DIALOGUE IN A RAILWAY CAR IN 
AMERICA. 



Inquisitive Yankee (sitting with his feet elevated in 
the air at an angle of 45°, chewing tobacco and scat- 
tering his saliva with liberality about the floor of the 
car, addressing his neighbour, an Englishman). You're 
a stranger, I guess ? 

Englishman. I beg your pardon ; did you speak to 
me, sir? 

Y. {repeating his former question with sang-froid). 
You're a stranger, I guess ? 

E. Yes. 

Y. "Wall, now, what diggings do you hail from ? 

E. I beg your pardon, I don't quite understand. 

Y. Where was you raised? where did you get 
your broughten-up? 

E. You mean what country do I come from. 

Y. That's it ; whare do you come from ? 

E. I am an Englishman. 

Y. Wall, now, I reckon it's considerable queer; 
you don't know your own tongue when you hear it 
spoke proper. I guess, stranger, youVe got it to 
say, you've been in a free country at last. How 
long have you been in the C^-nited States ? 

E. About a year. 

o 2 



196 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

Y. How do you like the country ? 

E. Tolerably well. 

Y. Only tolerable, eh? I knowed a man con- 
siderable like you down to Connecticut, only didn't 
squint. Might your name be Smith, now ? 

E. It might be, but it happens to be Jones. 

(A pause, during which the Yankee expectorates 
with increased rapidity.) 

Inquisitive Yankee (returning to the charge). I 
calkilate, Mr. Jones, you're in trade. (Englishman 
nods affirmatively). What business might you follow, 
now? 

E. My business is not the same as yours. 

Y. (after cogitating). Wall, I allot you don't 
know what my business be. 

E. I mind my own business ; you mind other 
people's business. 

(Inquisitive Yankee subsides into silence, until the 
cars make a sudden bound, as if they icould run 
off the track). 

E. (starting up in great alarm: after a pause). 
Pray, sir, what's the cause of that sudden shock we 
felt just now? 

Y. (icithout the slightest sign of surprise). I guess 
we've run into a critter. 

E. (with horror and indignation). Do you mean 
to tell me, sir, that we have run over a human 
creature, and that the engineer will not stop the 
train to — 

Y. (elevating his eye-brows with contemptuous pity). 



DIALOGUE IN A RAILWAY CAR. 197 

Wall, stranger, you do beat all, for not understanding 
English. Who said it was a human we run into ? 

E. Then what in heaven's name was it ? What 
do you mean by "a critter?" 

Y. Why a c-y-ow (cow) to be sure ! 
(Inquisitive Yankee immediately proceeds to en- 
lighten curious Englishman on the mysterious 
implement prefixed to American trains, called 
the Cow-catcher.) 



198 
PART II. 

IN THE OLD WORLD. 



THE DOOMED SISTERS. 



" Sie ist die erste nicht."j 
" She is not the first." 

Goethe's Faust. 

" 'Tis well thou hast forgotten me — 'tis well. 
Man will forget, but erring woman — never." 

Address of the Spirit of Margaret to Faust : 
Poetical Remains of P. J. Allan. 

It is unnecessary to state how we picked up 
the facts which form the outline of the following 
sad tale. We recommend it to the reader, first, 
because we believe it to be interesting ; secondly, 
because it embodies two great and glaring social 
evils of our day — the difficulties which our unjust 
division of labour throws in the way of young 
women, possessed of education and refined minds, 
reduced to the necessity of earning a living; and 
the shameful partiality of public opinion, which, 
while plunging the erring woman into crime, per- 
mits the guilty seducer to stalk abroad unpunished. 



THE BOOMED SISTERS. 199 

Mrs. Mansell had been left a widow, with two 
daughters, her husband having died heart-broken 
from the failure of a speculation, and leaving his 
family next door to beggary. With the pride which 
is said to characterize her native country (Scotland), 
Mrs. Mansell preferred coming to London, and 
battling with the cold, stern, hard world, to ac- 
cepting the patronizing bounty and supercilious 
compassion of the provincial town in which she had 
hitherto resided. 

To young women situated like Leonora and 
Minnie Mansell, the conditions of society present 
few employments, and those of a very secondary 
nature — either n governess or a seamstress, or some 
one or other of the many subdivisions of generic 
industry, into which the labour of the needle is 
divided. To a young man, thrown on his own re- 
sources, there is at least no limit but such as his 
own abilities and perseverance may oppose. Society 
does not say to him, as to woman, All lucrative and 
honourable functions are incompatible with your 
proper sphere; choose between these few insig- 
nificant employments. Yet woman is naturally 
more helpless than man, her resources for gaining 
an honest livelihood less ; and then what deplorable 
temptations are offered to young and handsome 
women! On the one hand, uncongenial, unremu- 
nerative work, searce earning a scanty and miserable 
subsistence. On the other, affluence, luxury, ease? 



200 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

pleasure. Alas ! how fearful are the odds against 
virtue. 

Leonora and Minnie were both handsome, 
although their beauty was very dissimilar in cha- 
racter. Leonora, the eldest, was a brunette, with 
raven hair, and eyes of the same hue. Her 
features, without being of faultless regularity, were 
extremely beautiful, and possessed that power of 
expression, which lights up the whole face in 
moments of emotion and enthusiasm, with an irre- 
sistible radiance. The prevailing expression was 
that of a tempered melancholy, her manner was 
retiring, and she was passionately fond of reading. 
In happier days she had possessed an opportunity 
of gratifying this taste, and had made no trifling 
acquaintance with the classics of more than one 
European language. 

Minnie was in many respects a contrast to her 
sister, both in personal appearance and disposition. 
Leonora was tall, the younger sister petite. Minnie, 
though not exactly a blonde, had more white and 
red in her complexion than the elder. The colour 
of her eyes was hazel, her. hair a dark brown, her 
features not so regular nor sa delicately formed as 
those of Leonora, but the expression more lively 
and perhaps more striking at a first glance. Minnie 
was as gay and light-hearted as Leonora was re- 
flective and calm. Altogether, Minnie was more 
fond of excitement, infinitely more dependent on 



THE DOOMED SISTERS. 201 

external than internal resources, of a less stable and 
more plastic nature, and in every way more impres- 
sionable and more exposed to temptation than 
Leonora. 

The sisters loved one another all the better for the 
diversity in their respective dispositions. Each found 
in the other the qualities which she herself lacked. 
The mother appeared to love both equally. Where 
both were so dear, she was probably not conscious 
of a preference. Perhaps, if a partiality could be 
fancied to exist, her heart secretly inclined towards 
the younger — " Wee Minnie," as she was affection- 
ately called. 

Minnie had obtained a situation at a large mil- 
linery establishment, kept by a Madame Le Blond ; 
and delighted her mother and sister by her racy 
descriptions of her new mode of life. Had they 
been more suspicious, or more acquainted with the 
world, they might have dreaded evil from some of 
Minnie's revelations, and the evident admiration 
with which she dwelt upon the rich dresses which 
she assisted to make, and the feeling of envy which 
she displayed towards their wearers. 

One thing did at length begin to excite slight 
symptoms of uneasiness in Leonora's mind. This 
was observing that her sister began by almost 
imperceptible degrees to dress more smartly than 
heretofore. Minnie, however, anticipated all in- 
quiries, by laughingly declaring the cause to her 
mother and sister, viz., that Madame Le Blond was 



202 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

so pleased with her that she had increased her 
wages ; and she presented her mother with more 
than the usual weekly sum which she had been 
in the habit of contributing as her share towards 
the household expenses. 

One day soon after, Minnie unexpectedly in- 
formed her mother and sister that her services had 
now become so necessary to Madame Le Blond, 
that the latter wished her to take up her residence 
altogether at tire establishment. Mrs, Mansell and 
Leonora consented to this sacrifice, but not without 
tears. 

" It will be a dull house, Minnie, without you/' 
said the widow, as she strained her youngest 
daughter to her bosom at parting. 

" But I can come and spend every Sunday with 
you, mother, dear mother," said Minnie, with a 
burst of almost hysterical grief, which appeared 
strange in one generally so gay and light-hearted. 
" Oh, my good, kind, dear mother ! and you, too, 
dear Leonora, do you love your c Wee Minnie ' then 
so very much ? " 

Her violent and sudden emotion affected her 
mother and sister. They could not have anticipated 
that the volatile Minnie would have felt so deeply 
a temporary parting for so short a period. More 
than once did Minnie return, after saying farewell, 
to throw herself into the arms of her mother and 
sister, and sob convulsively. At last, with a final 
effort, she tore herself away. 



THE DOOMED SISTERS. 203 

The first Sunday that she returned to spend at 
home, she seemed a changed being. All her spirits 
and vivacity were gone. She looked pale and ill ; 
though protesting, in reply to her mother's and 
sister's kind inquiries, that she was quite well — that 
there was nothing the matter with her. She did 
not speak much, but she listened attentively to the 
chapter which her mother read from the Bible, in 
the evening. It happened to be the parable of 
the Prodigal Son ; and as the widow read the 
beautiful passage, beginning : " I will arise, and 
go to my father, and will say unto him, Father, 
I have sinned against heaven, and before thee, 
&c, &c," tears flowed silently down the cheeks of 
Minnie. 

On the following Sunday, her manner had re- 
sumed all its cheerfulness. She was gay and full 
of animation, and chatted a great deal after her 
old fashion ; and her mother and sister congratu- 
lated her on having overcome her home-sickness. 
Thus it went on. One Sunday she would be gay, 
the next depressed, for a period of six weeks. Still 
neither Mrs. Mansell nor Leonora saw any reason for 
disbelieving her solemn asseverations that nothing 
was the matter — that nothing had occurred to vex 
her, &c. ; and attributed all her inequality of spirits 
to her natural keenness of feeling at being separated 
from those she loved. From this delusive dream 
of confidence they were destined to be suddenly and 
painfully awakened. 



204 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

On the seventh Sunday she did not come as 
usual ; but a letter, which her mother had received 
late on the previous evening, fully accounted for 
her absence. It was hastily scrawled, blotted, and 
shrivelled with tears, and the writing was difficult 
to decipher, and in some places quite illegible. 
Thus it ran :— 

" Mother and Sister, — Alas ! I know not if you 
will let me still call you so. How shall I begin — 
how break to you what I have to tell? Oh! be 
not too angry — at least do not utterly hate and 
despise me — do not curse me. I have been playing 
a false and deceitful part for some time. I have 
pretended that I loved you alone — you thought 
my grief arose from home -sickness — while, alas ! 
my heart has long been another's. That, at least, 
is my only apology — my only extenuation — that I 
love him! — oh, mother and sister! how dearly — 
when he could usurp my affection from you ! 

"Ever since that fatal day, when I pretended 
I was going to reside at the establishment, I have 
been living with him — as his wife. Although we 
are not married yet, he has promised solemnly that 
I shall be his wife ; — but there are reasons which 
I am not at liberty to explain, w T hich prevent it 
at present. We are going to the Continent. Oh, 
mother — sister — may I come and see you, and 
bid you farewell, and explain all, and show you 
that I am not half so criminal as you must think 



THE DOOMED SISTERS. 205 

me? I did not dare to come without writing 
this first. Oh ! your embraces have made me so 
wretched — knowing how guilty, how unworthy 
I was, and how deceitful — and yet if you knew 
all— * * * * ' Oh! 

kind mother — sister — have pity on me, going among 
strangers, trusting implicitly to the truth and honour 
of one whom I love, alas ! too well. * 

The name by which he knows me is an assumed 
one. It will be useless to inquire at Madame Le 
Blond's. He never saw me there or knew that I had 
been there. It is six weeks since I quitted the esta- 
blishment; and I told her, to disarm all suspicion, 
that I had got another situation. I told all these 
untruths (alas ! one sin brings on another), at least 
from a good motive, to prevent the possibility of a 
shadow of reproach falling on the name which you 
and Leonora bear. No ! whatever happens to me, 
the name of my father shall never have disgrace 
attached to it. Oh ! forgive, pity, pray for me, — 
if you did but know how wretched I am at the 
thought of the anguish I am causing you !" 



Here the writing became illegible, except a word 
here and there, and the commencement of a sen- 
tence abruptly broken off. A postcript, however, 
contained a repetition of the request that she might 



206 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

be allowed to visit her home once more ; and gave 
the address to which a reply might be sent. 

Mrs. Mansell had been educated in that narrow 
and prejudiced school, which pardons all faults to a 
woman, but one. It would be useless to urge upon 
her, or the thousands of women who think like her, 
that this one unpardonable fault is, from the consti- 
tution of human nature, the artificial structure of 
society, and the temptations of the world, in point of 
fact the most venial, and one which can plead more 
in extenuation than any other. Her youngest 
daughter, her best beloved, had committed this sin. 
It was enough ; and no pleadings of natural affection, 
no precepts of religion, could hinder- that strict 
disciple of Calvin, that female moralist who believed 
that a large portion of her fellow-beings would be 
tt>rtured for ever in hell, from tearing from her 
bosom (no doubt with a mighty pang, but not the 
less ruthlessly) all the ties of love and parental pride 
which had hitherto bound that erring daughter to 
her heart. 

The stern determined character of the widow was 
evinced by the manner in which she acted, on and 
after receiving her daughter's communication. She 
read the letter in secret. Whatever the inward 
struggle, the mighty anguish of her grief, she gave 
no outward sign. She did not weep, she did not 
groan. As she sat thus alone with her affliction, her 
eye was attracted by something on the floor. She 



THE DOOMED SISTERS. 207 

stooped and picked up a bank-note for twenty 
pounds which had been enclosed in her daughter's 
letter. For a moment her eyes flashed, and she 
grasped the note with a gesture of ungovernable 
fury. In an instant it would have been worthless, 
torn into shreds (a pause) she grew calmer, and her 
features relaxed into a grim smile, as she smoothed 
out the note and muttered hoarsely, " the wages of 
her infamy." Then she sat down and wrote a few 
brief bitter words to Minnie, to the purport that she 
had cast her off for ever, enclosed them in an envelope, 
along with the bank-note, and having sealed and 
directed her letter to the address given in Minnie's 
postcript, she put on her bonnet and shawl, walked 
to the nearest office and posted it. This done, she 
seemed comparatively relieved. Yet all that night 
the strong-minded, stern, relentless woman wrestled 
in solitude with her secret cause of agony. 

In the morning she arose, to all appearance calm 
and composed, and read Minnie's letter to her eldest 
daughter, without, however, showing it to her or 
acquainting her with the address mentioned in her 
sister's postscript. She waited till the first burst of 
Leonora's grief had subsided, and then announced 
to her the reply which she had already sent, and her 
determination to consider Minnie Mansell henceforth 
as one dead. " Mind, Leonora," concluded the un- 
forgiving mother between the hysterical sobs of the 
latter, " if, by any chance, you ever discover that vile 
abandoned outcast, and hold any intercourse with 



208 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

her, you cease to be my daughter. I will cast you 
off even as I have done her, though it break my 
heart. Yes, I have now but one child. Never pollute 
your lips, or insult my ears, by mentioning her name 
before me again. Get the Bible and read the 
morning chapter. We must not forget His service, 
whatever happens.'' 

$fc y&- 3r ^ ^? 

Six months had rolled on, and mother and daughter, 
deprived of the assistance they had derived from 
Minnie's earnings, had grown more and more straitened 
in their means. Leonora had often wished to obtain 
some situation, either as teacher or dressmaker, but 
Mrs. Mansell would not hear of her leaving home ; 
and, indeed, Leonora felt that her daily presence was 
necessary, for her mother, though unflinching in her 
resolution of never permitting her youngest daughter's 
name to be mentioned before her, showed, by the 
additional lines of care on her face, that the blow 
had stricken deeply. 

Although Leonora had no regular employment 
which took her abroad (her labour chiefly consisting 
of dressmaking and slop-work which she took home 
with her), yet there was often a day or two in 
the week when she would be absent for several 
hours, sewing at the houses of her employers. It 
was on one of these occasions that the maid of all- 
work came up stairs, and told Mrs. Mansell that 
there was a lady in a carriage below who wished to 
speak with her. Supposing that it was some one 



THE DOOMED SISTERS, 209 

who had called about work, Mrs. Mansell inquired 
the lady's name. 

** She didn't say her name, please, ma'am," said the 
servant ; " she only said she wanted to see you, and 
would come up stairs." 

Mrs. Mansell was about to save the lady the 
trouble of coming up, when the latter entered the 
apartment. She waited until the servant had retired, 
and then she advanced towards the widow. She 
appeared a young and well-dressed lady. As she 
approached, traces of sickness and sorrow were 
visible on the features, and as she drew nearer to 
Mrs. Mansell, she held down her head, and gave 
symptoms of being much distressed. The widow's 
eyesight had begun to fail her lately. The lady 
appeared to her an utter stranger. 

" Pray be seated, madam ; " she said ; " I am sorry 
you have had the trouble of coming up these long, 
crooked stairs. My daughter is out at present, if it 
is about work that you have called/' 

It was very evident that the visitor was not in a 
condition to render exercise agreeable. But the lady, 
instead of seating herself, threw aside her veil which 
had partly concealed her features, and falling on her 
knees, cried in a plaintive but feeble voice, " Oh, 
mother, I have come back to ask your forgiveness, 
even as the Prodigal returned to his father. Do you 
not know your own 6 wee Minnie ? '" 

Yes, it was she indeed. The Prodigal returned, 
but not, alas ! to be welcomed like the Prodigal. The 

p 



210 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

widow started back. For an instant the slightest 
perceptible trembling passed over her frame ; then 
she stood erect and rigid, as she said, — 

" And what brings you here, under an honest roof, 
with your silks and satins, you shameless aban- 
doned — wanton ! What, would you touch me ? " she 
exclaimed, stepping back abruptly, and shaking off 
rudely the hand which her daughter had laid upon 
the skirt of her dress. 

" O mother, mother ! " was all the sobbing penitent 
at her feet could utter. 

" Call me not mother — I do not own yon. 1 have 
but one daughter, as I told you in my letter ; she 
who never abandoned, never deceived me, or pre- 
ferred the trappings of guilt to her mother and her 
home. Oh, that I should live," she continued, in a 
sudden paroxysm of fury, " to hear myself called 
mother by such a thing as you ! Off, off, I tell you ! " 
and with the fearful volubility of anger she over- 
whelmed her daughter with the most disgraceful 
epithets w T hich can be applied to woman. 

" O mother ! " shrieked Minnie, as she raised her 
wan, but still beautiful face, streaming with tears, 
from her hands where she had concealed it. " I am 
not that — I am not that fearful name ! Guilty, 
wretched, wicked, I know I am — but I have not 
sunk to that ; oh, God ! no — " 

" Will you go ? " cried the mother, stamping her 
foot. 

" Only hear me — only let me tell you — how I 



THE DOOMED SISTERS. 211 

was situated — what my temptations were — how I 
was deceived, and you will pity — indeed, indeed 
you will pity me — your heart will melt — " 

" I will not," retorted the widow, furiously. " I 
tell you, madam, this is an honest house. Poor we 
may be, but we are respectable. Away — carry your 
finery somewhere else. My daughter, my only 
daughter, will be in soon. I will not have her con- 
taminated. If you do not go at once, I will myself 
leave the house." 

Slowly and painfully Minnie raised herself with 
her unconscious burthen from the floor, and gazed 
earnestly in her mother's face. There were no signs 
of pity or relenting there. All she said was, " God 
grant, mother, you may never live to repent this," 
and then withdrew. 

When Leonora returned that evening, her mother 
welcomed her as usual. By no word or sign did she 
discover the faintest clue to the scene which had 
passed. On the following day, without assigning any 
reason, the widow changed her lodgings, in order to 
prevent Minnie from having intercourse withher sister. 
***** 

Three years have elapsed. It is evening in that 
great artery of London, the Strand. People are 
crowding into the theatres, to force the jaded appetite 
for excitement, unmindful of the far more tragic and 
instructive drama played by that tide of humanity 
through which they carelessly elbow their way. 
Haggard, pale-faced women are besieging the 

p 2 



212 GKINS AND WRINKLES. 

play-goers with bills, while beauty and fashion, 
robed in opera-cloaks, pass heedless by, from coro- 
netted carriages, whose sleek and pampered steeds 
are in strange contrast to the want and wretchedness 
around. Women equally young and beautiful, but 
destined to die on dunghills, patrol the trottoir, 
eagerly seeking to barter their health and their 
immortal souls for gold and a brief delirium of 
pleasure; the pavement is alive with gaily painted 
street-walkers of all grades, from the draggled 
homeless wretch, to the flaunting dressed-lodger, 
attended by her satellite (a servant to the establish- 
ment) to watch that she does not abscond with the 
clothes she wears, as an allurement to sin, to bring 
in money to the vile procuress whose slave she is ; 
with hurrying passengers, with whining mendicants, 
pick-pockets, apple-women, hawkers, ballad-singers, 
shoe-blacks, policemen, &c. ; in short, with that 
strange medley of vice and wretchedness which 
swarms every evening in the leading thoroughfares of 
the great city. 

A female, young and modest, with her eyes cast 
down, and carrying a bundle, is walking hastily, 
looking neither to the right nor the left. She has 
arrived opposite a gin-palace (very near a church) 
around the door of which are collected a group of 
bold, gaily-dressed women, who seem inclined to 
dispute her passage. One of them (who is still young 
and pretty, although the rouge on her cheeks cannot 
hide the ravages of consumption) has just sallied from 



THE DOOMED SISTERS. 213 

the public-house, evidently very much the worse for 
liquor. This woman, who is hailed by her com- 
panions by the name of Polly, looks askance at the 
modest young female approaching, and seems de- 
termined to play her off for the amusement of her 
audience. 

u Here's a rare lump of modesty coming this 
way!" (" Hurrah!" from the other women; "give 
it her well, Polly.") "That's right, Miss; gather 
up your skirts, as if a fellow-creature would poison 
you." 

(One of the women.) "Well, to my mind, Polly, 
she do look like a decent gal. She don't raise 
her eyes from the ground, or take no notice of 
nobody." 

(Another woman.) " She a decent gal ! Don't you 
believe it. I'll bet a quartern she's as bad as 
any of us. She's a sly 'un, that's what she is." 

"I'll give it to the artful minx," resumed the 
woman they called Polly. "I'll teach her to 
come here with her • virtuous airs. So you 
can't look up, Miss Modesty, eh? Who or what 
are you to stick yourself up so ? I believe you're 
a sham after all. Let's see what you've got in 
that bundle. Come, pay your footing, or say good- 
bye to it." 

" Pray, pray let me pass," cried the young woman, 
in a nervous, frightened tone. "Indeed, you mis- 
take me for somebody else ! " 

"Well, I don't think you are what you look, 



214 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

if you mean to say you're respectable ; I'm up to 
that game." 

" Indeed, I don't understand you, ma'am, — do, 
pray, let me pass," said the young woman, struggling 
with Polly, who held the bundle. 

While thus engaged, she caught a full view of 
the latter's face; she staggered, screamed, and let 
go her hold. 

" Oh, my God ! — can it be — this is too, too hor- 
rible ! Isn't your name Minnie ? " she gasped out. 

"No, no, it's Polly," chorussed the hardened 
women around. 

"Well, and what's my name to you, eh?" re- 
turned she they called Polly. 

Leonora (for she it was) bent and whispered a 
few words into the other's ear, which appeared 
partially to sober her, for she replied, " What's that 
you say about mother and sister ? " 

Just then there came out of the public-house a 
frowsy female, without bonnet or shawl, whose 
frightfully forbidding features were rendered still 
more hideous by a terribly black eye. She carried 
a small pewter measure in her hand, which she 
held out to Polly, saying, " Yere, Pol, ^'honour 
bright, I told you as 'ow I'd save ye a drain 
out of that 'ere last quartern as you stood. Yere 
it be." 

Leonora dashed the poison from her sister's lips — 
Yes, her sister ! 

Three years and a half, which pass so lightly 



THE DOOMED SISTERS. 215 

and pleasantly with many of us, had sufficed to 
metamorphose a girl, once pure and innocent, into 
this vile thing. "Bonny wee Minnie" had become a 
gin-drinking street-walker. Yet, even in her phy- 
sical and mental ruin, she still looked beautiful, 
nay good, beside the libel upon woman at her 
elbow, who, putting her arms akimbo, addressed 
Leonora, and poured out a volume of abuse too 
gross to be written, for knocking the gin out of her 
hand. 

"For God's sake! sister, come away from this 
— this woman," cried Leonora, shrinking with a 
convulsive gesture of abhorrence from the female 
who had tempted the unfortunate Minnie. 

" Not if I knows it, neither," said the woman ; 
her bloated features twisted into a look of malice, 
laying her heavy hand on Minnie's shoulder, as her 
sister attempted to draw her from the crowd. 
" You owes Mother 'Opkins for two weeks' board and 
lodging, let alone your clothes, which is not a stitch 
belonging to you." 

Why pursue the shocking picture further? Suffice 
it to state, that Leonora learnt then how far her 
sister had fallen : that she was the slave \ of a 
procuress ; and this horrible woman, whose appear- 
ance and foul language made the blood curdle in 
her veins, the spy who dogged her footsteps, to 
see that she did not abscond with her finery. 

" Come, come, move on there with you, blocking 
up the pavement,'' cried a lordly policeman. At 



216 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

his approach, the babbling, screaming, swearing 
women separated and hurried away, like a flock 
of small birds when a hawk is discerned hovering 
near. Endeavouring to shake off the deadly faint- 
ness at her heart, Leonora staggered on, feeling 
as if she would drop at every step, but clinging 
tightly to the arm of her newly-found sister, while 
that terrible woman stalked behind them like an 
evil genius. 



At length they were alone together in an apart- 
ment in Minnie's (I cannot w r rite Home) — but 
place of abode. Minnie, but half-sobered by the 
recognition, answered only with slang phrases the 
outpourings of sisterly affection. There was some- 
thing inexpressibly horrible in her ill-timed gaiety. 

"O Minnie, Minnie, do not use those frightful 
words — do not laugh that way." 

" Nonsense, don't preach to me. I'm low enough, 
when I am low, I can tell you. Take a drop of 
comfort. No ! then I will " (and she took a bottle 
from a cupboard ; but the glass which the wretched 
girl held to receive the murderous liquor remained 
without a drop). " Hullo ! this bottle's empty — 
I forgot — they never trust me with a drop now, 
since I had the horrors and tried to kill myself. 
A short life and a merry one — hurrah ! Here, 
Sarah - Jane, — where are you ? We'll send for 
some gin, and then I'll sing you the ' Ratcatcher's 



THE DOOMED SISTERS. 217 

Daughter' — I heard it at the Canterbury; but 
how can I sing if you keep up that snivelling there ? 
Ha, ha ! Do you know what I'm laughing at now ? 
That you should be crying — you, an honest girl — 
while I, a street-walker, a ( common prostitute,' as 
they call me, can laugh. Ha, ha ! " and a fiend 
might have echoed that hollow, dismal laugh. 

Leonora covered her sister's mouth with her 
hand. " Forbear, for God's sake ! do not laugh 
again — it breaks my heart, it chills the marrow in 
my bones to hear you laugh like that. O God ! 
how unlike the merry laugh I recollect so well." 

" You're very particular about my way of laugh- 
ing ; I should think for a girl that's booked as I am, 
it's pretty well to laugh at all, any fashion." 

" 'Booked,' what do you mean ? " 

"How precious green you are, sister ; why, can't 
you see with half an eye that I'm going home fast?" 

M Come, then, dear sister, come, let us go at 
once," said Leonora, who understood her literally ; 
61 we will go home to mother, and — " 

" That's not the home I mean — I'm dying, that's 
all." 

Words cannot picture the look, the cry, the 
gesture, with which Leonora clasped her erring 
sister in her arms, as if by that fond clinging em- 
brace she might haply ward off death itself; and 
suddenly the evil mocking spirit which had hitherto 
animated the unfortunate girl was cast out. Gra- 
dually, Leonora felt a faint pressure in return. 



218 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

"May I — may I kiss you?" said the trembling 
figure in her arms. The wan and wasted face was 
pressed to hers ; and Leonora knew, by the tear 
which moistened the cheek, that God had opened 
her sister's heart. 

For many minutes they wept convulsively, heart 
pressed against heart. At length Minnie spoke in 
broken accents, — 

"You love me then still? You do not shun me ? 
You, good and virtuous, can take me to your arms 
— me, an outcast— a thing that everybody loathes 
and tramples on ; — and yet, Leonora, if you would 
listen to my story — Oh ! I am not so guilty, so 
wicked, as I seem — " 

" But first let us leave this dreadful house. See, 
I have money — wages I have just received. You 
are free, sister. Off— off with these trappings of 
guilt — any rags are better than these — only let us 
flee!" 

The she-fiend, who trafficked in the ruin of her 
own sex, though very unwilling to lose her victim, 
knew too well the consequences of a criminal pro- 
secution, to be obstinate ; and, accordingly, her 
claims being satisfied, and Minnie having substi- 
tuted for her borrowed finery, a dress which before 
the meeting with her sister she would have been 
ashamed to wear, the two young women left the 
house of sin. That night, as they sat together 
in an apartment under a poor but honest roof (Leo- 
nora could not take her sister home until she had 



THE DOOMED SISTEKS. 219 

first prepared her mother), Minnie communicated 
the following brief outlines of her sad story : — 

MINNIE'S STORY. 

u Leonora ! if he, for whom I left mother, 
you, home, and virtue, had only behaved differently, 
and kept faith with me, I should not be here, the 
wretched outcast you see me. How I loved him ! 
I would have gone through fire and water for him. 
There was no sacrifice I could make for him that 
seemed a degradation. He might have trampled on 
me. He has struck me, and, spaniel- like, I 
fawned the more. In short, / loved. He per- 
suaded me first to live with him, under a promise 
of marriage. I was too attached to him to have 
any doubts of his sincerity, but to prevent the 
consequences of scandal to you and my mother, 
I disguised my real name under that of Mary 
Osborne. I soon, however, discovered that Hunter, 
the name under which he courted me, was assumed 
— that his real name was Clifford — Edward Paul 
Clifford, and his rank so superior to mine, that 
marriage was hopeless. But bitter as this dis- 
appointment was, I loved him so fondly, that the 
thought of my affection being returned by him 
made me comparatively happy for a brief period, 
and stifled the voice of conscience. By little and 
little, however, he grew cold and indifferent. I 
pretended not to see it. I studied his happiness 
— his comforts; but, one day, without any pre- 



220 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

vious intimation, he told me abruptly that we 
must part. I implored him to relent — I threw 
myself on my knees — I grovelled at his feet ; he 
remained inflexible. I spoke to him of the child, 
of which I was about to become the mother ; and 
he offered to bring it up on one sole condition — 
that I would abandon all claim to it for ever. At 
this last heartless insult, I turned at bay ; my love 
was changed to bitterness and contempt. I threw 
back the purse which he tendered, and left him, 
never to meet him again in this world, as I thought. 

" Then I first felt what my desolation was. My 
heart yearned to cling to something. I had done 
wrong, but I was not depraved. I wished to 
become good, for I felt every day the impulses 
and awful responsibilities of a mother quickening 
within me. A few Sundays before leaving home, 
you recollect I had wept over the parable of the 
Prodigal Son, and I wondered if my mother had 
regretted her bitter reply to my letter, and would 
forgive and receive me. I thought I would go 
and see ; for I dreamed every night of both of 
you, and on waking, what would I not have given 
for one caress — one fond word from either I" 

" Ah ! why did you not come ? " interrupted 
Leonora. 

"I see my mother never told you of my visit." 

" How ! you came, and she did not receive you ! 
Can this be possible ? " 

" I went to our mother," continued Minnie ; Ci I 



THE DOOMED SISTERS. 221 

knelt before her ; I implored her pardon. Had she 
but admitted me into the old home on any condition 
— were it as a servant — I would have been happy. 
But she,-— my mother, who had loved me so when 
innocent, who, but a few short months before, had 
clasped me to her breast, and called me her ' bonnie 
wee Minnie/— she spurned me from her, — would not 
listen to my justification, and called me — well, no 
matter — I was not what she called me then." 

" Alas, alas ! " sobbed Leonora, " you have indeed 
been wronged, my sister. Why had I not been 
there ?— how different it would have been ! " 

" I know it, I know it now, dear Leonora ; but 
then my heart was embittered with my reception, 
and I thought I had not one friend. Well, at length 
I became a mother." (Here Minnie w T as silent for 
some time, while the tears of real repentance flowed 
down her cheeks.) " Oh, sister, sister ! you cannot tell 
how I struggled to be virtuous, — what trials I came 
through — before, before — I fell. But what could I 
do? I had no character, and could get no work. 
Perhaps I could have starved myself; but I could 
not see my child die. O, God ! sister ! " she cried, 
convulsively grasping Leonora's arm, " you have 
never known — I pray to heaven you never may 
know — what my sufferings were : to look down upon 
the babe that lies on your bosom, and see its features 
pinched, and hear its faint w^eak cry for the suste- 
nance which you cannot give it. That drove me almost 
frantic. I had applied for assistance to Clifford ; my 



222 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

letter was returned ; he had left the country. / 
had been two days without food when I went on the 
street. But my constitution had grown too feeble 
for the functions of a mother. My boy pined away. 
I struggled on, do not ask me how, for six months, 
and then, my child died. 

" I had no means of burying him, so I was forced 
to apply to the parish. Yes, my bonnie babe, to 
keep life in whom I would have perished, for whom I 
had already made such sacrifices, whom I had tended 
and nursed, and rocked to sleep on my bosom, was 
taken away by brutal men, and jolted over the 
stones, and buried in the earth among rotting coffins, 
without a stick or stone to mark the spot. Oh, if 
they had only laid my little darling in some country 
churchyard, under a green grave, where I might 
have gone sometimes, and seen the flowers growing 
over him ! I could not weep in that great charnel- 
house — and if I could, they would not let me stay — 
they hurried me away that they might close the 
gates. 

" I was ill after that for many weeks, and light- 
headed. They said I would either die or go out of 
my senses ; but I did neither. Health came back, 
but not happiness and virtue. I owed for my keep 
during my illness, and to pay it there was but one 
resource — the street! The people with whom I lived 
laughed and taunted me for hesitating. They gave 
me no credit for any remains of good. 6 Come, 
come, none of your virtuous airs,' said the woman 



THE DOOMED SISTERS. 223 

of the house ; ■ but go out and bring in money like 
the other girls, and as you have done yourself 
before.' The clothes I wore were borrowed, besides 
what I owed for board and lodging. I wa s watched 
so that I could not run away ; but where was I to 
run to ? I called at my old home ; you had gone, I 
could not learn whither. I was low and wretched. 
I had not one friend left ; the people I lived with, 
bad as they were, were the only society I could look 
to, and I was considered as already depraved. If 
you have thought, as I know some do, that the 
generality of girls embrace the life of the streets 
from choice, even the little you have seen to-night 
will have undeceived you. If ever there was a hell 
upon earth, it is this life of Q a gay girl ' as they 
call it. Oh, the sights that I have seen, the fearful 
revelations I have heard, when wandering through 
this mighty city, whea good, respectable people were 
in their beds ! At times, the thoughts of my dead 
child, along with my actual way of life, the loath- 
some company I kept, and the horrible things I 
witnessed, almost drove me wild. And what 
consolation had I, think you ? what refuge against 
suicide ? Why, in the only friend we poor girls have 
— drink ! 

" One evening, I was standing at the door of the 
theatre, watching the people going in, and wondering 
whether the well-dressed ladies who passed us so 
proudly ever gave us a thought, or believed that 



224 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

we were really made of the same flesh and blood as 
themselves, or that repentance could save such 
sinners as us, when a gentleman almost brushed 
against me with a lady on his arm. I knew him in 
an instant, and pronounced his name involuntarily, 
* Clifford. 5 He turned and recognised me. In that 
brief glance I read the mingled feelings caused by 
the rencontre; — astonishment, perhaps remorse, at 
the condition to which he had brought me, but the 
prevailing emotion was shame at the exposure. The 
lady on his arm, who was young and beautiful, 
recoiled from me, as if I had been some poisonous 
reptile, and I heard her say to her companion, ' Does 
this person know you? ' But the man of the world 
had recovered his presence of mind in a moment as 
he replied, ' She has the advantage of me then, for 
she is an entire stranger to me. Here, policeman, 
remove that female who is blocking up the way.' 

" ' Do you give her in charge, sir ? ' said the man, 
obsequiously. 

" ' Of course I do ; here is my card,' and he put 
something into the man's hand, and saying a few 
hurried words in a low tone, passed on with the lady 
into the theatre. 

" The policeman took me by the arm, and led me 
a little way. Whether acting on his own respon- 
sibility or private orders backed by a fee from 
Clifford, he then let me go, saying, ' Young woman, it 
was very uncivil of you to speak to a gentleman 



THE DOOMED SISTERS. 225 

going into the theatre with a lady on his arm. I'll 
let you off this time ; but mind you never offend 
again, or I shall be obliged to lock you up.' 

" This chance meeting with Clifford had brought 
back a whole tide of reminiscences, and I was longing 
to drown thought in the usual way, but I had no 
money to buy liquor, when I met a girl named 
Nancy, for whom I felt some degree of friendship, as 
she appeared the least hardened of any whom I knew. 

" ' Oh, Polly ! ' said she, calling me by the name I 
went by amongst them, 'come along up to the 
Swan ; I've two bobs and a tanner left. What do 
you think I intend to do with them ? ' 

" < What ? ' I asked. 

" ' Why, get jolly well drunk, and then throw 
myself off Waterloo Bridge.' 

"I went with her, for I thought she was joking, 
and I was dreadfully low in spirits. In an hour the 
money was expended, and Nancy was in a state of 
intoxication. ' Now,' she said, as she beckoned me 
out of the public-house, ' I have the cheek to do it. 
Good-bye, Polly dear ! God bless you ! ' I still 
thought she was joking, for I had heard her talk in 
this way before ; but as she leaned over me to kiss 
me, I saw her lip trembling, and a strange wild and 
fixed expression in the eye. Suddenly she broke 
from me, and set off running towards the bridge. I 
began now to suspect she might be in earnest, and 
followed her as fast as I could, but I was very 
unsteady from the liquor I had drunk. I called out 

Q 



226 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

to the man at the gate to stop her, but amid the noise 
and confusion he either did not hear or disregarded 
it as some frolic. I saw Nancy gain the gate and 
pass through on to the bridge, and then I remember 
no more, for I fell flat and senseless in the road. I 
had been knocked down and nearly run over by a 
cab. I was taken to the hospital and put to bed, 
and it was the next day before I was sufficiently 
recovered, from the effects of the soothing medicines 
I received, to recollect what had passed. The events 
of the night before appeared like a dream, until I 
heard that the body of a girl had been taken out of 
the river at Waterloo Bridge, with the skull fractured, 
an arm and both legs broken. As soon as I was 
able, I went to see the body, and it was Nancy I 

" Poor Nancy ! often had we shared our last sixpence 
with each other to get a mouthful of food. Standing 
by the corpse, I remembered how often she had spoken 
of suicide, and one conversation in particular. One 
morning we had been standing on one of the bridges, 
watching the dawn breaking over the city. We often 
did this — Nancy and I ; it seemed to do us good to feel 
the fresh air, and we talked of old times, of the country, 
of places far distant from London, where we had 
been innocent and happy. I remember, as we came 
to the corner of Farringdon Street and Ludgate Hill, 
we saw a wretched, draggled, houseless wretch, whom 
a policeman was ordering 6 liomej while the cabmen 
were jeering and mocking her. She was too drunk 
to articulate plainly, but she was howling more like 



THE DOOMED SISTERS. 227 

a wild beast than a woman at the policemen and her 
tormentors. 

" c There, Polly/ said Nancy to me, ' do you see 
that creature ? People say all us girls on the streets 
are alike. Do you think she ever had a mother, and a 
home ? was she ever taught to say her prayers as we 
were ? ' 

u ' God help her ; yes, I suppose so/ said I. 

g * ' Do you think it's true what the parsons tell us 
about hell, Polly ? ' 

" I did not reply, and she continued after a pause, 
c I sometimes think that our own conscience is punish- 
ment enough for us girls in this world. I hope it's 
not true about a hell for suicides, for I'm determined 
never to be like that poor wretch there. No, no, 
Polly ; before it comes to that, the River, the River 
forme.'" 

Minnie paused here, and looked her sister full 
in the face, who sat speechless in horror at such 
revelations. 

" Leonora," she said, " do you know why I told 
you poor Nancy's fate ? " 

" No," said Leonora, in a hollow voice. 

" Because I had made up my mind to follow her. 
I know it would have been only hastening my 
death about six weeks or so ; but I was so wretched 
that even that seemed a dreary time to look forward 
to. I was drinking myself into a state of uncon- 
sciousness when you met me. Yes, as sure as God 
is above, but for you, I should now have been in my 

Q 2 



228 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

last refuge in this great city — the common home of 
prostitutes — the Kiter ! " 

***** 

Leonora brought the wanderer home to die. The 
stern, unforgiving nature of the widow yielded at 
last when she beheld the miserable wreck of her once 
lovely daughter, and then her conscience smote her 
with the reflection, that she-— her mother- — had been 
instrumental in her ruin. Ah I of what use had been 
the daily-read chapter in the Bible, if she could not put 
in practice the golden precept, " Do unto others as 
you would they should do unto you ; " or the 
supplication of our Heavenly Father, " to forgive us 
our trespasses," if we do not forgive our fellow- 
mortals ? The parable of the Prodigal Son — she 
knew it by heart — but the spirit of the example had 
borne no fruits. Alas! remorse came too late. Minnie 
had spoken truly — she died five weeks after she 
returned home. Bitter, indeed, must have been 
the self-reproaches of her mother, as she stood by 
that death-bed, and heard her delirious words. 

" Mother — Mother — I am the Prodigal— will you 
not receive me ? Do you not remember the parable I 
used to read to you, how ' His father saw him a great 
way off, and had compassion, and ran and fell on his neck, 
and kissed him/ — and how the Prodigal said, ' Father, 
I have sinned against heaven, and before thee,' — Yes 
— I have sinned, I know— I am a great sinner, but I 
am not that name — Mother — indeed I am not aban- 
doned— Mother ! cruel — crueL— Christ would not 



THE DOOMED SISTERS. 229 

scorn me; He forgave the erring woman — and I 
wished to be good too — But my child — my child — he 
cried — he pined for food — and they took him from 
me — my bonnie boy-— and buried him in a big hole, 
full of bones and skulls " 

It was a consolation to the two mourners that she 
became rational a short time before she died. 

"Kiss me, mother, and you, too, Leonora — do not 
weep — I know that God is good, and will have 
mercy, since there are angels like you upon the 
earth. Mother, sister, clasp your arms tight around 
me : for it is growing dark ; let me feel that you are 
near me — that I am home once more. It seems as if 
the last four years were but a dream, and that we 
were all together, as in the old happy days. — Ah, 
no more disgrace now — no more sorrow — all, all is 
bright ! " 

And so, in that last caress, the spirit of the penitent 
girl passed away. She had fulfilled the injunction of 
the poet to the woman who " stoops to folly n — 

" The only art her guilt to cover, 

To hide her shame from every eye, 
To bring repentance to her lover, 
And wring his bosom, is — to die." 

Hard is the lot of her who takes a false step in the 
present condition of society. She must either hide 
her sorrows and shame in the grave, where, it may 
be, " blossom and bough lie withered with one blight," 
or else become, indeed, the guilty creature which 



230 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

one fault had not made her; and, when she has 
accepted the only alternative besides suicide, and 
every day sinks her deeper and deeper in degradation, 
the finger of scorn is pointed at her; the door of 
repentance is closed, and the excellent Christian 
lady, the pattern of virtue and morality, who haply 
never knew what it was to be poor and friendless in 
the midst of temptation and want, shrinks aside lest 
her garments should touch the outcast in the street. 
What, indeed, is there in common between the two ? 
The one is shielded against vice from the cradle to 
the grave, the other, perhaps, begotten in infamy, 
reared in the midst of it, predestined to lead a 
shameful, shameless life, and die a fit and correspond- 
ing death. Yet Jesus of Nazareth did not disdain 
to speak comfort to such sinners ; and one would fain 
hope that when all temporal distinctions, sorrows, and 
trials are over, the friendless being will find a Judge 
more lenient than the world, and that the decrees of 
Heaven will reverse the moral disorder of earth. 



231 



THE DOOMED SISTERS (CONCLUDED). 



" Take her up tenderly, 
Lift her with care, 
Fashioned so slenderly, 
Young, and so fair." 

Hood's Bridge of Sighs, 

A tear had elapsed since Minnie's death. In an 
elegantly furnished apartment of a house in a 
fashionable quarter of London, a gentleman, in a 
richly-flowered dressing-gown, was lounging over his 
breakfast. Mr. Edward Paul Clifford was a man of 
thirty, and might certainly have been called hand- 
some, but for the unmistakeable air of dissipation 
which a long career of libertinism had stamped upon 
his features. Clifford was one of those called in the 
polite laxity of the French language, "un liomme a 
bonnes fortunes ," in plain English a man of no prin- 
ciple in his dealings with women. He had probably 
long ago ceased to believe in such a thing as female 
virtue, and only thought that some women were 
more difficult and troublesome than others, though 
in the end every female might be conquered by per- 
severance, flattery, and gold. 

Throwing the paper on the breakfast-table, Clifford 
mused awhile, and then suddenly arose, and rang the 
bell for his valet. 



232 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

" Well, Jenkins/' he said, as the servant appeared, 
tc what news of my fair incognita ? Have you suc- 
ceeded in learning her name ? " 

" Yes, sir," said Jenkins, obsequiously ; " I traced 
the young person, as you ordered me, sir, to a very 
mean street in the neighbourhood of the Seven Dials. 
I then proceeded to make the requisite inquiries, 
taking care, in course, to use proper precautions — " 

" Cut it short," said his master : " tell me what you 
did learn, never mind the how." 

" She is a seamstress, sir, by the name of Mansell, 
and lives with her mother — a widder, and an old 
'ooman not expected to live." 

"Any male relatives, Jenkins?" 

" None, sir." 

" Have you broken ground yet?" 

" Yes, sir. In obedience to the general tenour of 
your instructions " 

" Jenkins," said his master, "you were intended 
for a clergyman ; you would have made an admirable 
pulpit orator, I doubt not, and you are cunning 
enough to be a bishop. Your style is florid, but at 
present I prefer terseness — you understand. 

"I will endeavour not to offend again, sir; I 
believe I can take a 'int as quickly as most persons, 
and, indeed "■ 

"Hang you — tell me what you did in so many 
words." 

" I gave the young person some shirts to make up 
for a Mr. Heartly, sir." 



THE DOOMED SISTERS (CONCLUDED). 233 

"That is my present c nom de guerre,' or rather 
' nom d? amour] I believe. Well " 

" I also took the liberty of representing you as a 
philanthropist, particularly interested in relieving the 
wants of young persons of her class." 

" There is some truth in that, at any rate." The 
valet re-echoed his master's sneering laugh. " There's 
a guinea for you, Jenkins, and hark ye, manage 
matters for me with your usual skill, and you'll find 
me generous." 

" Thank you, from the bottom of my 'eart, sir," said 
the valet, pocketting the douceur. " Perhaps I may 
be permitted to observe that the old 'ooman can't 
live long, and Miss Leonora — that's the young 
person's name, sir " 

" And a very pretty name. Well, Jenkins ? " 

" Shell be in a peck of troubles about the funeral 
expenses. In the course of my experience, sir, I 
'ave observed them sort of people always is mons'ous 
particler about 'aving their relations buried decent. 
We all 'ave our little weaknesses. Now, sir, if you 
was to call and offer to lend " 

"I see, I see," interrupted Clifford; "a capital 
suggestion. I shall certainly act upon it. That will 
do; you deserve great credit for the ingenuity of 
your invention, and your devotion to your master's 
service." Then as Jenkins withdrew, Clifford con- 
tinued, "and for being a d — d unscrupulous, stick- 
at* nothing knave, who will do any dirty work for 



234 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

money." While the valet in the hall soliloquized as 
follows: — "Another dirty villanous job — my con- 
science is growing tender — well, this shall be the 
last. He certainly pays 'andsome, however/' as he 
took out the guinea and looked at it, " and there's 
this consolation, I'm only subordinate, not principal, 
and if I didn't, another would earn the money, 
and, any way, I'm not anythink like the rascal 
master is." 

At his club that day, Clifford, the finished roue, 
encountered a Mr. Tom Woodby, who was aspiring 
to that distinction. 

"Ah, my dear Cliff, how are you?" cried the 
pupil, as the master approached ; " though I needn't 
ask: gay and lively as ever, I see." 

" And you, my dear Tom, as dull and hipped as 
ever, I suppose." 

"Why, yes; London is so dull just now — " 

"Dull, man! why it's the height of the season." 

" Well, it don't seem like the season, somehow," 
said the blase exquisite. " There's nothing going on, 
nothing to give one a fillip. Nothing new, no excite- 
ment — at least, nothing that's worth seeing. I've 
been staring out of the club-room window for the 
last two hours, wondering where all the people were 
got to." 

" Why, surely, there are enough of people in the 
streets." 

"Well, I mean none that one knows or cares 



THE DOOMED SISTERS (CONCLUDED). 235 

about. Positively if I don't get a fillip of some kind 
soon, I shall settle down into a state of the most 
unmitigated collapse." 

u Why don't you imitate me ? " said the roue — (how 
devoutly Woodby washed he could imitate him !) 
" Bustle about, cut out work, or rather pleasure, for 
yourself. Why, man, I've lived seven or eight years 
longer than you, and I'm not blase yet. You're not 
half alive. Apropos, wish me joy: I've started fresh 
game — a charming grisette. I'm on my way to see 
her now, to make her acquaintance for the first time." 

" Lord, how unconcerned you do look ! " replied 
the more timid Woodby. " You've never spoken to 
her, you say. If I were in your place I should feel 
terribly — ahem, I mean slightly nervous." 

"I've no doubt you would." 

"Well, Clifford, you are certainly the luckiest 
fellow with the women. Where do you contrive to 
pick 'em up?" 

" Pick 'em up ! why, my dear fellow, they jostle 
you in the streets. Here, for instance, comes a bevy 
of charming damsels, and accomplished too — there's 
not one of them who doesn't paint — her cheeks." 

" Pshaw, Clifford ! you know I don't mean women 
of that sort, but modest, respectable girls, such as a 
fellow might protect, you understand, with some 
satisfaction and credit to himself." 

Clifford laughed. "You must admit, my dear 
fellow, that your definition of modest, respectable 
girls is somewhat contradictory in terms." 



236 



GRINS AND WRINKLES. 



"Nonsense, Clifford ; you know well enough what 
I mean — a girl who hadn't loved before, who hadn't 
lost the charm of her innocence, who would take a 
fancy to a chap, as that girl Mary what's-her-name 
did to you. By the way, what became of that pretty 
creature?" 

Clifford shrugged his shoulders as he said, "My 
dear fellow, you do ask such extraordinary green 
questions. Why, that is quite an antediluvian affair — 
a matter of four years ago. You might as well want 
to know the fate of my cast-off clothes, as that of my 
discarded mistresses. But I must leave you now, 
the mother of my charmer is on her death-bed, and I 
have to play the part of the good Samaritan, the dis- 
interested philanthropic alleviator of distress. If I 
don't make haste, the old lady may take it into her 
head to slip her wind before I get there, which 
might probably disarrange my schemes. Au revoir 1 
When I next see you, you shall learn what success — 
whether it's likely to be a " veni, vidi, vici " affair, or 
the contrary." 

Woodby cast a glance of fervent admiration after 
the heartless libertine, and delivered himself in 
thought of the following soliloquy : " Now what 
would I not give if I could only talk, think, and act 
like that fellow Clifford ; show that supreme disregard 
to the opinion of the world, the feelings of others, 
and more especially of credulous women, which marks 
him so unmistakeably for the man of fashion ! There's 
that actress I've been making love to for a year, and 



THE DOOMED SISTERS (CONCLUDED). 237 

no further advanced than the first week I began. 
Yet she's as imperious, exacting, and troublesome as 
a wife, and ruins me into the bargain. Yes, go your 
way, Clifford, — the best, happiest, merriest, wickedest, 
most enviable dog alive. He has such success with 
the women ! To my certain knowledge, he's ruined 
more than I've dared to look at. How does he manage 
it ? He's not a better-looking fellow than I am. 
It must be his impudence, his infernal impudence. 
The women certainly like the impudent chaps best, 
probably because they themselves have modesty 
enough for two. My misfortune, my great draw- 
back, my rock-ahead through life, is my conscience. 
Oh ! if it wasn't for that I could be so wicked, and 
lead such a life ! I'm sure I try all I can to be fast 
as it is. Ah ! there goes a pretty girl, and looking 
this way, I think. Shall I speak to her ? Best wait 
a little. Now if Clifford were here, he wouldn't 
hesitate a moment. But hang me, (though I wouldn't 
have my fast friends know it for the world,) if ever 
I ventured to speak first to any girl who looked at 
all respectable. Well, c faint heart — ' they say. At 
all events, I'll follow her and see where she goes to." 
[Exit this precious specimen of Young England.] 

We will now follow Clifford to the bed-side of 
Mrs. Mansell. The widow had never held up her 
head since the death of her youngest daughter, and 
now at her dying hour she was troubled, not only by 
reminiscences of her harshness to Minnie, but also with 
fears for the uncertain future which awaited Leonora, 



238 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

soon to be left alone in this cold, stern world. That 
affectionate daughter had just finished reading a 
chapter in the Bible when a knock was heard at the 
door; and Catherine, a little maid-of-all-work, aged 
fourteen, came to say- that a gentleman, who gave 
his name as Heartly, begged permission to enter. 

" What ! " exclaimed the dying woman, " Heartly, 
the benevolent stranger who has sent us work and 
alms ! It is the act of Providence that I should see 
him before I die." 

Clifford accordingly entered, and both in words 
and manner appeared to sympathize deeply with the 
distress he witnessed. He might have been really 
touched, or he might have been only acting. If the 
latter, he certainly imposed upon the widow and her 
daughter. 

" Believe me," he said, " I came not here to in- 
trude upon your grief, but in the hope I might be of 
some service. I had heard from my servant that 
there was sickness and destitution here, and I thought 
I had a right to come and endeavour to alleviate 
them." 

" Raise me, Leonora," exclaimed the widow, " that 
my dying gaze may rest upon this true Christian. 
O kind sir, do not think me importunate if I implore 
your charity, for which / have no need, in behalf of 
my daughter, the best, the most devoted child that 
ever breathed. It is not my own approaching death 
that grieves me, but the thought that she who never 
cost me a regret, or a moment of sorrow, who has 



THE DOOMED SISTERS (CONCLUDED). 239 

watched, tended, nursed me, who has waked, and 
pinched, and starved herself that she might preserve 
me, a poor, useless, worn-out burthen " 

" Mother, dear mother ! " sobbed Leonora, " you 
will break my heart if you speak so." 

Clifford took the hand of Mrs. Mansell as he 
said, w If it is the fear for your daughter's future 
which distresses you, then dismiss at once all anxiety, 
all doubt. I promise you, I swear to you, your 
daughter shall find a true friend, a protector, in me." 

The dying woman pressed her lips to the hand 
which she held, and murmured with her ebbing 
breath such broken sentences as these : u God be 
thanked — the world is not all wicked — this man, 
this angel — sent to us in our distress — thank him, 
daughter, for me — tell him — my blessing — my dying 
blessing — never know want more — comfort — happi- 
ness — Leonora, farewell " 

* ytt * ^P ?r 

Six months had elapsed. Fashionable victims, 
like Woodby, were lounging at their club-windows, 
sighing after something to give a fillip to existence. 
Strange apathy which besets the spoilt child of 
wealth, luxury, and ton — when there is yet so 
much to be done and seen in the world; for while 
the listless lounger, eaten up by ennui, is exclaiming 
t€ How dull London is ! " pining for some event out of 
his petty daily routine of life which he calls the 
world, do not the sun, moon, and stars still continue 
to shine ? are not the same miracles of seed-time and 



240 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

harvest, day and night, still recurring ? is not nature, 
to those who seek her, as fair and lovely as ever ? are 
there not, diversifying the great drama of existence, 
sickness and health, struggles for fame, wealth, 
existence ? does not the lover rave, the poet dream, 
the artist paint, the philosopher muse ? are not armies, 
alas ! meeting in the shock of battle ? and does not the 
loud roar of busy bustling life still ascend from 
crowded cities ? and are there not enacting around and 
about us, within our sphere of influence, almost w T ithin 
our sight, every-day wrongs, miseries, tragedies, more 
wondrous and heart-rending than the scenes which 
move our pity represented on the stage or depicted 
in the page of fiction. 

Up high beyond a flight of crooked, rickety 'stairs, 
in a bare, comfortless room, sits a young woman in 
deep mourning, sewing ; a delicate, beautiful being, 
the frail springs of life barely supported in her wasted 
form by her brain- searing, health-consuming toil. 
Were her thoughts to be put in words, they would 
run thus :— 

"O hard, cruel, deceitful world! Little did my 
mother know to whose care she confided me, or the 
interested motives of this Mr. Heartly, whom she 
thought an angel sent upon earth. Already has he 
dared to insinuate proposals which I shudder at — 
alas, how completely am I in his power ! The means 
of actual subsistence, scanty and insufficient as it is, 
I owe to him, and then the sum I have borrowed to 
defray the expenses of my mother's funeral " 



THE DOOMED SISTERS (CONCLUDED) . 241 

Here a knocking was heard at the door, and a rude, 
vulgar shop-boy entered. 

" Them shirts — ain't they done yet ? " 

" I am sorry to say I have been unwell, and have 
not had time to finish them — but " 

es Oh, that's the old story ! Just 'and em over as 
they are." 

"Pray grant me a little time — my bread de- 
pends " 

" That ain't none of my bus'ness. Our guv'nor 
give me perticler orders I was not to take no more 
excuses ; but if the shirts wan't done, to bring 'em 
back just as they was. So just 'and over. That's 
all'ays the way with you sewing girls — you're never 
up to time, you ain't." And taking the shirts he 
departed. 

"My God! what will become of me?" thought 
Leonora, as she wrung her hands. "Oh, for a comforter, 
an adviser, a friend ! What am I to do ? I have 
heard that the virtuous poor are never forsaken — 
that we should bear up against our troubles and 
never despair ; but what a black, bitter prospect is 
mine — " 

Another knock, and Catherine entered with a 
parcel. She curtsied to Leonora and said, "Mr. 
Heartly's servant left this for you, miss, and Mr. 
Heartly hisself is below, and— — " she was inter- 
rupted by the entrance of Clifford. Catherine closed 
the door and retired. 

Clifford approached Leonora with a mixture of 

R 



242 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

respect and familiarity, and began in a winning voice, 
u How does my sweet Leonora ? But, how is this ? 
your eyes are red, you have been weeping ! " 

" I often do when I am alone — I was thinking of 
my mother/' 

" Excuse me, Leonora, but the eyes of love are 
proverbially quicksighted : you are looking pale and 
exhausted." 

" I suppose it is because I have eaten nothing all 
day." 

Clifford started. To do him justice, he appeared 
shocked at this intelligence. He ran to the door, 
and having summoned Catherine, put money into 
her hand, with directions to go to the nearest 
restaurant for a substantial dinner. In the mean- 
time he went out and shortly returned with a bottle of 
wine, a glass of which he insisted on Leonora swallow- 
ing immediately. 

In the low-spirited and desponding state in which 
Leonora was, she would not have been human if she 
had not been affected by Clifford's alacrity in 
ministering to her wants. 

As soon as the dinner arrived, he saw that she 
was supplied with everything needful, and then 
taking a book, pretended to read, that he might not 
appear to be watching her. But though his eyes 
were on the page, his thoughts were elsewhere, and 
his mental soliloquy ran as follows : — 

"By Heavens, I am a villain! She 'eats like 
one who has fasted long. It goes to my heart 



THE DOOMED SISTERS (CONCLUDED). 243 

to have recourse to such a method of taming her 
proud spirit, I am tempted — I am strangely tempted 
— but no, that would never do, to have it said that 
Clifford was baffled by a woman— to have Woodby 
and others jeering me, the roue, on his becoming a 
convert at last to female virtue. No, no, mine she 
must be, at whatever sacrifice, for I love her ; I will 
make her ample amends for all her present suffer- 
ings." (From time to time he stole rapid glances at 
her unperceived, ) "How beautiful she looks, in 
spite of her pallor and her coarse dress, and now 
the wine has brought a delicate tinge of colour into 
her cheek." He made an abrupt movement, as if 
about to cast himself at her feet, but restrained 
himself. " Fool ! that would be to ruin all, to undo 
all my labour. Once let her feel her power, and I 
lose all my ascendency. She would become the mis- 
tress, and / the slave. No — though it is agony to 
see her suffer, to hear her prayers, and not grant 
them. I must preserve my false position ; it cannot 
be long; I feel that her aversion is wearing away 
imperceptibly. To-day I think I have gained a 
good step. Courage and perseverance but for a 
little while, and the conflict is at an end; then 
paradise, rapture, love ! " 

This train of thought will display Clifford's 
character, and designs upon Leonora. He really 
loved her — yes, loved! this woman whom he was en- 
deavouring by every unworthy stratagem, by every 
advantage that could be taken of her unfortunate 

k 2 



244 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

position, even by actual want, to force into com- 
pliance with his wishes — that is, he loved her with all 
the love of which his libertine nature was capable — a 
strong and selfish passion. Strange and contradictory 
as his conduct must appear, he really loathed himself 
for the base use he was making of his power, for the 
actual physical suffering which he compelled her to 
endure. But the difficulty of the conquest only 
enhanced the ardour of the pursuit, and he lacked the 
moral mastery over himself to sacrifice his own 
personal gratification and set his prisoner free. He 
endeavoured to compromise with his conscience by 
resolutions of compensation — of the amends he would 
make her for every moment of anguish he had caused 
her, when she had once overcome her foolish scruples 
and consented to accept his love. Then he would 
live to please her ; then she should not have a wish 
ungratified ; then, what delight for him to watch 
the roses of health, and the smile of pleasure re- 
visiting the features of his beautiful Leonora ! Alas ! 
the evil was existing — the good was in the future. 

Meanwhile Leonora, having finished her repast, 
began to augur favourably of Clifford's silence. At 
length she addressed him. "Once more, Mr. Heartly, 
I have accepted from you alms which I would gladly 
have declined. Let me now implore, while your 
better nature is in the ascendant — put an end to this 
degrading state of dependence on my part. You 
have wealth, you have influence ; procure me some 
situation where I may gain an honest livelihood, anu 



THE DOOMED SISTERS (CONCLUDED). 245 

in time repay you what I have borrowed. Let it be 
anything — however humble, laborious, even menial, 
§o that it be honest — and you will make me your 
debtor in gratitude for ever." 

As she pleaded thus eloquently, Clifford's better 
nature was tugging at his heart, prompting him to 
comply with her request. But with a strong effort 
he resisted the impulse, and replied, — 

"My dear girl, my dear Leonora, believe me, I 
know the world better than you do, and I advise you 
for your own good : you were never intended to lead 
a life of toil and deprivation, but to be carefully 
shielded against the rubs and hardships of the world 
by one who will be repaid more than a thousandfold 
in the reward of your love." 

" Speak not thus to me in this room, Mr. Heartly." 
" And whose fault is it, beautiful Leonora, that 
you are still in this wretched abode, and surrounded 
by objects which continually recall the sad past? Of 
what use is unavailing grief? You did your duty 
nobly by your mother while she lived ; but now your 
youth and beauty invite you to enjoy life." 

u And the price for such enjoyment is — dishonour" 
" Pshaw, dearest girl ! dismiss these romantic 
ideas. When you have lived to my age you will 
know that vice and virtue are two names, two jingling 
sounds, which are bandied about by fools and knaves, 
shifting from one signification to the very opposite, 
as pleasure or interest dictate." 

" Mr. Heartly, say, did you not promise my mother 



246 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

on her death-bed to aid and support me ? and now 
you are plotting my ruin." 

" No, by Heaven ! my promise of protection I 
mean to keep, if you will not be your own enemy. 
Hear me, Leonora; what is it you wish to do? 
Descend in the social scale, embrace a life of toil and 
obscurity, and wed perhaps some dolt of a husband 
utterly unable to appreciate your worth, who will 
tyrannize over you for ever ; perhaps beat you when 
he gets drunk? And I offer you, in lieu of this 
wretched existence, all the appliances of luxury and 
affluence, which have so great an influence in soften- 
ing and refining character, and a heart that loves and 
adores you, a life-long devotion, and that higher 
intellectual condition which is the offspring of a 
meeting of two congenial souls." 

Clifford continued to pour out a strain of impas- 
sioned eloquence, which, from the lips of a hand- 
some man, is so perilous to female virtue. "O my 
Leonora! learn to see me in my true light. If I 
have appeared to use harsh, ungenerous measures, 
if I have reminded you of your dependent' position, 
and any obligations I may have already conferred, it 
was, believe me, because I would not willingly lose 
a single chance of winning such a treasure as I 
esteem you. Deign to try me, dearest Leonora; 
leave this gloomy, sordid dwelling, for the elegant 
and cheerful apartments which are at your disposal. 
See in me no longer a gaoler, but a fond, devoted 
lover ; and then, if you cannot return my affection, I 



THE DOOMED SISTERS (CONCLUDED). 247 

will make you free, even at the price of my own 
happiness for ever." 

For some time Clifford had noticed that his words 
made an impression on Leonora. Now almost beside 
himself with joy, he perceived that she appeared to 
hesitate and deliberate, for none had had better ex- 
perience than he, " that the woman who deliberates 
is lost." He redoubled his prayers and entreaties, 
besought as a peculiar favour that he might be per- 
mitted to escort her to a private box at the opera 
that evening; and then suddenly unfastening the 
parcel which Catherine had brought up, displayed a 
magnificent evening dress, which a countess might have 
worn with pride. With consummate tact he chose 
this moment for his departure, leaving Leonora's 
acquiescence more implied than yielded, and begging 
her not to deprive him of the pleasure he promised 
himself, in seeing her in her new costume; and pledg- 
ing his solemn word of honour that she should return 
at her own will and pleasure, he pressed his lips 
fervently but respectfully to her hand, and vanished. 

The reader will already have perceived that Clif- 
ford was not an object of indifference to Leonora. 
Insensibly, unconsciously to herself, from the force of 
habit she had grown not to dislike him ; nor was it 
inexplicable that a girl so utterly friendless and 
alone should be impressed by one of Clifford's 
engaging appearance and refinement, so well versed 
moreover in the female heart, so consummate an 
actor, who played his deep game with such perfect 



248 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

skill, taking care never to alarm or shock her delicacy 
by any overt act of libertinism. The cautious man- 
ner in which he made his advances, the turn of 
apology which he had given to his very harshness in 
ascribing it to his fear of losing her, the actual 
obligation under which she was to him, and the 
sense of being so completely in his power : all these 
causes combined had their effect ; and though she 
battled sore against it, a feeling akin to affection had 
begun to grow up in her heart for a man whom she 
felt she could not esteem. 

Her thoughts, while Clifford spoke, might be thus 
expressed : " No — no — you must not tempt me ; it 
is cruel to tempt a poor girl so. How unequal the 
alternative — comfort, luxury, against actual want! 
I will not go to the opera with him — and yet to 
return when I please — -What a beautiful dress! I 
have never worn anything that approached it in 
splendour — how should I look in it?" (With all her 
strength of mind and refinement of character, Leonora 
was a woman, and could not be quite insensible to 
the charms of person.) 

After Clifford had gone, she pressed her hands to 
her temples and sat regarding the dress, while she 
mentally asked herself : " What have I done ? — what 
have I promised ?— only to go to the opera with him. 
Why should I not put him to the test ? — His words 
and manner were kinder to-day than ever." (Alas ! 
it was this kindness which proved her greatest 
enemy. It strengthened the leaning which she 



THE DOOMED SISTERS (CONCLUDED). 249 

began already to feel towards Clifford.) Then she 
strove to cheat her judgment to sanction what her 
inclination prompted. u Perhaps, if I put some 
confidence in him, he may fulfil his word and release 
me from my dependent condition." 

She was startled from her reverie by Catherine, 
who had entered without attracting her notice, and 
now spoke. 

" Did you call, miss ? " 

" No," replied Leonora. 

"Please, miss, I thought you did," returned 
Catherine, who, like most girls of her age, was fond 
of a little gossip. " What a nice kind gentleman Mr. 
Heartly be, miss ! " 

"Do you think so?" said Leonora, abstractedly. 

" He give me a shilling just now, miss, as he went 
out, and he says, € Attend well to Miss Leonora,' 
says he, c for she's the best and most beautiful young 
woman in the world.' Them's his very words. I 
often does be w T ondering, Miss Leonora, when such 
a rich kind gentleman comes to see you so often, 
that he lets you live here all alone, so poor-like. 
Oh my ! what a beautiful dress ! " said Catherine 
abruptly, as her eyes fell on it for the first time. 

" Do you know, Catherine, I might have dresses 
finer than this, and ride in a carriage, and exchange 
these bare walls for luxury and splendour, if I would 
but say — one word." 

" Law ! miss, and why don't you say it ? " 



250 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

" What would you do in my place, Catherine ? " 
" I wish I was in your place, miss. I mean, I 
wish I had such another chance as you, miss : I 
wouldn't be long a-makin up my mind." 

"But suppose, Catherine, that this change in- 
volved the surrender of all you held dear, the loss of 
your own self-esteem ; the destruction of your peace 
of mind and happiness for ever ? " 

" Law, miss ! I don't understand you." 
How earnestly did Leonora envy the young girl 
the simplicity, the ignorance, which made her (Leo- 
nora's) hesitation such an enigma, as she replied : 
" That will do, Catherine; I was joking ; I shall want 
you, by and by, to help me to dress." 

* * # * 

We will now follow Clifford, who had hardly 
turned into Pall Mall before he met Woodby. He 
was in excellent spirits at his anticipated success, 
and could not resist disclosing it. " Conor atulate 
me, dear Tom ;" he exclaimed, " I have at length 
put the finishing touch to this tedious business, of 
the progress of which I have kept you duly an fait 
by occasional bulletins" 

" What! " replied Woodby, "I suppose you mean 
this mysterious beauty, whose name and address you 
persist in keeping so carefully concealed from me." 

" The same ; trust me for that. I know better 
than to give such dangerous young fellows as you 
an opportunity of poaching on my manor." And so 



THE DOOMED SISTERS (CONCLUDED). 251 

saying Clifford playfully poked Woodby in the ribs, 
who was delighted with the compliment to his 
own gallantry coming from such a distinguished 
source. 

" Ha, ha, ho ! I can be a dangerous fellow, rather, 
when I choose. I flatter myself I could destroy the 
peace of mind of a few married men, if I were that 
way inclined. " 

"I believe you, my boy," said Clifford, who 
amused himself with laughing in his sleeve at his 
friend's conceit. " I'd trust you with a chere amie of 
mine, as far as I could see you. Well, this little 
witch has proved the most difficult job I ever took 
in hand. By Jove, she nearly baffled me. You 
know, Tom, I'm not much given to despairing where 
women are concerned — " Veni, vidi, vici" is my motto 
— but, upon my soul, if this little tormentor had held 
out a week longer, she would have vanquished me, 
and made me a firm believer in female virtue into 
the bargain." 

" Ha, ha ! how very good ! How exceedingly 
droll ! You, such a Don Juan — such a roue — a 
believer in female virtue !" And Wooclby went into 
ecstasies of laughter at the inconsistency of the idea. 

" Why, you know, my dear fellow," continued 
Clifford, " as I told you, I popped in at the critical 
moment : won the old woman's heart on her death- 
bed, by promising to protect her daughter (which 
promise, by the way, I intend to keep literally)." — 
here Woodby was excessively tickled, and laughed 
heartily again — "laid the daughter under obliga- 



252 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

tions to me, by advancing money for the funeral 
expenses, besides furnishing her with the means of 
daily subsistence, and entre nous, taking devilish 
good care to prevent her getting into any hands but 
my own ; and, to give the beggar his due, I must 
say that rascal of mine, Jenkins, was very useful to 
me. Well, one would have thought my position 
was a strong one, yet here have I been pressing the 
siege close ever since, a matter of six months, and 
have been compelled, as a dernier resource, to starve the 
garrison into surrender, although it almost broke my 
own heart to have recourse to such an expedient." 

" But you have succeeded at last ? " 

" She's going to the opera with me to-night. We 
shall sup together afterwards. That looks rather 
like it. Look out for me soon in the park, Woodby ; 
you will see a perfect Venus by my side. All the 
men will envy me, and the women grow pale with 
spite at her superior beauty. Adieu, I must hurry 
away to prepare for my triumph this evening. I see 
you envy me ; " and kissing his fingers jauntily to his 
friend, Clifford walked off, leaving Woodby in the 
utmost depression of spirits, to draw a comparison 
between Clifford's good fortune and his own hard 
lot in the following mental monologue : — 

" Envy you ! yes, I should think I did envy you, 
rather" and he gazed admiringly after his fast friend. 
"Fortunate fellow! the women seem positively to 
drop into his arms. Modest merit like mine has no 
chance with such an insinuating, plausible, unprin- 
cipled paragon of libertines, such a pattern for young 



THE D00>lED SISTEKS (CONCLUDED). 253 

men of fashion as Clifford. "When shall / have the 
good luck to stumble upon a beautiful girl in destitute 
circumstances, with a dying mother ? And even if I 
did, when should / turn it to account like Clifford, by 
talking over her mother on her death-bed, getting 
the daughter into my power by lending her money. 
and then starving her into compliance ? This comes 
of having my early education neglected — being 
brought up in a moral manner, as they call it, with 
my mother and sisters, like a muff, till I came to 
years of discretion, instead of being turned loose 
upon the town at an early age. I shall never recover 
that first false step, I fear. If I hadn't had the 
natural bent of my genius thus thwarted, I might 
have been as fast as Clifford. Why, I should be 
afraid to say the number of girls Clifford, to my 
knowledge only, has brought to the streets ; and as for 
me (though I wouldn't have my fast friends know it 
for the world), I'm ashamed to say — I never seduced 
a girl in my life." 

Leonora had just completed her toilet. The 
splendour of her dress formed a strange contrast with 
the mean apartment. She looked round and 
shuddered as her eyes] fell upon"; the bed where her 
sister and her mother had died, and then on her own 
costume. But her self-communing was interrupted 
by Catherine, who gazed at her w^ith admiration. 
sc Law, miss ! how beautiful it do become you ! I'm 
sure if I'd come in promiscuous-like, on a suddent, 



254 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

I never should ha' knowed you ! You don't look a bit 
like the same person you was in your black, miss/ 5 

Leonora sighed. " I liked myself better in my 
coarse mourning. Catherine, would you be sorry if 
you were never to see me again ? " 

Catherine put her apron to her eyes. "What 
miss, be you a-goin' away for good ? " 

Leonora might have said, "For evil." " Are you 
sorry," she asked, " that I am going, Catherine ? " 

" Oh, Miss Leonora ! I'll never see no one to like 
as well as I likes you. You was always so kind and 
gentle, and sweet-spoken." 

" Should you like to come and live with me, and 
be my little maid, Catherine ? " 

Catherine's face brightened up. " Oh, should'nt 
I then ! miss but^I ain't fine enough to wait on a lady 
like you." 

Leonora drew the girl towards her. "I believe 
you love me, Catherine. You shall come and live 
with me ; if you promise always to love me, we shall 
never part." She stooped and pressed a kiss on the 
girl's brow, and then hurried away. 

" Well, for sure," thought the simple Catherine, 
H I don't understand Miss Leonora this evenin\ It 
would make me so happy to have all them fine 
clothes ! " And her cheek was quite wet with tears. 
* # # # # 

That night Clifford sat at supper in his own house 
with a lady. Who could at first have recognized 
in that gay, smiling, elegantly attired beauty who 



THE DOOMED SISTERS (CONCLUDED). 255 

presided at the banquet, as if she had never known 
care or sorrow, charming her entertainer with the 
racy sparkle of her conversation — the poor seamstress, 
clothed in coarse mourning and plying her needle in 
an attic? The magic world to which she had, for 
the first time, been introduced, the Opera, might have 
had its share in producing this wonderful flow of 
spirits ; but there was a recklessness about her 
gaiety which would have alarmed Clifford, had he 
known the struggle she had undergone in private. 
He only saw in it the joy of one intoxicated with 
the new life of pleasure opening to her, and deter- 
mined at length to cast aside the shackles of conven- 
tionality. 

" Leonora," said he, as he filled both their glasses 
with champagne, " I drink to your metamorphosis. 
From a chrysalis you have indeed become a butterfly. 
Beautiful I knew you to be ; it needed not the 
charming toilette of this evening to make me appre- 
ciate the graces of your person ; but I could not learn 
before all the wealth of your mind, the brilliant wit 
which you have hidden till now. But let me urge 
one request : pray drop the odious Mr., and call me 
Edward." 

" Your name is Edward ? " said Leonora. 

"Yes, Edward Paul Heartly" 

Leonora started, and turned slightly pale. Strange 
coincidence ! The name of her sister's destroyer was 
Edward Paul Clifford. A horrible thought intruded 
on her ; she strove to banish it by mentally arguing 



256 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

on its improbability ; but it would not do ; it came 
back and wrestled at her heart, and the uncertainty 
became agony. What would she not give for some 
proof that she was mistaken ! 

"Where, love/' continued Clifford, not noticing 
her agitation, " could you have picked up such happy 
epigrammatic turns of expression, such piquant 
repartee ? Oh, Leonora, what happiness will be 
ours ! In you I have found at last a woman worthy 
to be loved ! We shall visit Italy together — we will 
bask in all the most beautiful, intellectually intoxi- 
cating life that the world can afford. You shall learn 
art, music, — every accomplishment. With your 
natural gifts, you will soon outstrip the artificial 
minions of society, who have been taught from their 
cradles. Every day our souls will grow more con- 
genial, and the ties that unite us stronger and more 
lasting than the legal bonds which confine the 
wretched victims of society." Thus he ran on, heed- 
less that Leonora's attention was abstracted; that 
she only raised her eyes stealthily, and seemed to 
scan the apartment with an eager, searching, restless 
glance. When at length she spoke, it was in a 
strange, hoarse, unnatural tone, which might have 
astonished Clifford, had he not been under the influ- 
ence of wine. 

" It is getting late, I must be gone," she said. 

Clifford endeavoured to remonstrate. 

" Remember your pledged word of honour, that I 
might depart when I chose — I hold you to it." 



THE DOOMED SISTERS (CONCLUDED). 257 

Clifford perceived she was in Earnest. "I will 
show you that you may have confidence in me. But 
you cannot go alone. " 

" Nay, I must depart alone." 

M Tantalizing girl ! Well, then, to-morrow night I 
shall call to install you in your new apartments." 

With trembling hands Leonora had been arraying 
herself in her bonnet and shawl. Suddenly her eye 
fell upon a heap of old letters which lay loose on an 
escritoire ; seizing one at random, she took the 
opportunity of Clifford being engaged in filling two 
glasses with champagne, to glance hastily at the 
contents. 

At this moment, Clifford advanced to offer her one 
of the glasses, but even he started at the sudden 
change which had come over Leonora. Her face 
was deadly pale, her teeth pressed together, and she 
tottered as though her limbs would give way under 
her weight. Thinking it some physical weakness, 
he advanced to support her, and held the wine to her 
lips. The action seemed to dispel her faintness. 
With a loud scream, and a wild convulsive move- 
ment, she dashed the glass from his hand. 

Clifford stood aghast. It was some time before 
he could find words. At length he said, "What 
new caprice is this, Leonora? You certainly look 
more lovely thus excited; but it needs no arts to 
inflame my passion. Come, let us be friends before 
we part." 

But she shrank from his embrace with a gesture of 



258 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

frantic abhorrence. With all his knowledge of the 
sex, Clifford was puzzled. " Can this be acting ? " he 
thought ; " or is it the last expiring struggle of virtue 
and repentance ? " 

Suddenly Leonora laughed in a strange manner as 
she said, — 

" You think me either an accomplished actress, or 
an odd, eccentric girl, do you not ? Well, you shall 
be satisfied. Come to my lodgings to-morrow even- 
ing, and you shall know all." 

"So," thought Clifford, " it is all right ; she consents 
that I shall call for her." Then addressing her, " You 
are the strangest, most whimsical, bewitching 
creature. So you will really go in that strange 
manner, after being so amiable? Well, well, you 
shall have your own way to-night ; to-morrow, it is 
settled, I come and fetch you." 

"Be it so," she answered, with the same hollow 
laugh; "you will be sure to find me. Stay, I am 
whimsical, am I not ? Sit down in that arm-chair — 
promise you will make no attempt to detain me." 
Clifford did so, and in the same instant he felt a cold, 
clammy kiss pressed upon his forehead. He had 
hardly time to wonder at the strange inconsistency 
of the proceeding, or the coldness of her lips, when 
the words, "Farewell, Clifford ! " rang in his ears, 
and he was alone. 

On a little reflection, that last word, his own real 
name, appeared to give the clue to the whole mystery. 
How had she learned his name? He remembered 



259 

that she stood near the escritoire, and that she had 
appeared to conceal something. He went and rum- 
maged over the letters, and found one wanting. It 
was a letter from Mary Osborne, one of his victims, 
of whom he had heard nothing for years, save that 
he met her one night at the door of a theatre, and 
there could be no doubt of the profession she had 
adopted. " Ha ! that accounts for it all," he thought ; 
" Leonora has glanced at the contents of this letter, 
seen my real name, and without noticing the date of 
the letter is jealous of this poor girl! Yes, that 
must be it : part anger at my courting her under a 
false name, and part jealousy ; or, perhaps, it's barely 
possible, though not very likely, that she may at one 
time or another have known something of this Mary 
Osborne. Who could have imagined she had such 
keen feelings ? Upon my soul, I'm glad she takes 
the matter so to heart. It's plain I've triumphed — 
that she really loves me." Suddenly he started up, 
and rang the bell violently. "By Jove! she went 
away so quick, I had no time to offer her money. 
I don't believe she has enough to pay a cab, and she 
never would have asked me. Fortunately, no need 
to play the miser any longer." The valet entered. 
" Here, Jenkins, take this purse, and hurry after the 
young lady " 

" The young person who has just left, do you 
mean, sir— — " 

" I said the young lady/ 9 thundered Clifford. 
" Present her with the purse ; offer respectfully to 

s 2 



260 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

call a cab, and see her home, and remind her of our 
engagement to-morrow." 

The obedient Jenkins started on his errand, but 
returned very soon, bringing back the purse, and 
wearing a somewhat troubled look. 

" How now, sir ? " cried his master ; " what brings 
you back with the purse ? " 

" Please, sir," began Jenkins, " I followed the 
young person — I mean the young lady — as you 
desired " 

"Tormenting idiot, be brief." 

" Well, sir," said Jenkins, "I offered her the purse, 
which she took in her 'and and threw back at me, 
and, to the best of my knowledge, none of the 
money fell out, but I ? ope you'll count it, sir, and 
see " 

" Proceed," cried his impatient master. 

" And when I offered respectfully to call a cab 
and see her 'ome, she bid me begone quite fierce- 
like." 

" Did you remind her of her appointment, as I 
desired you ? " 

" I did, sir, and I won't forget in a 'urry the exact 
identical words she made use of in reply, and the 
way she said them, They ran as follows : ' Tell 
your master ,' this is what the young per — lady said 
to me, if you please, sir, ' he's to come and fetch me at 
my old homey and he'll he sure to find me? " 

" That will do, Jenkins ; it's all right ; you can 
light my bedroom candle and go." 



THE DOOMED SISTERS (CONCLUDED) . 261 

But the valet, after having obeyed his master's 
first order, lingered. 

" You'll excuse me, sir, for the liberty I'm a-goin' 
to take in making a gratuitous observation, but I 
don't think it's all right with the young person — I 
mean the young lady. She looked quite white, and 
spoke through her clenched teeth like, just as if she 
was half scared and half desperate " 

" Pooh, pooh, Jenkins ! I perceived her manner 
was a little strange, but I know the cause of it ; she's 
jealous of another woman." 

" You'll excuse me making the observation, sir." 

" To be sure ; to be sure." 

"And the purse, sir; the contents is all right, I 
presume ? " 

" All right, all right, Jenkins. Good-night ! " and 
his master withdrew, laughing gaily at the oddities 
of his servant, who soliloquized as follows : " Well, 
it may be all right; but I don't understand it. If 
it's jealousy, I wouldn't like to be the party she's 
jealous of, and fall in her way to-night. And so 
she's a-goin' the way of all the rest. Well, as master 
says, there's no constancy in woming. I thought if ever 
there was a h'honest girl, she was one. Well, if 
anythink should come of it, it'll be master's fault, not 
mine. He can't say I 'avn't warned him." And so 
Jenkins, having thus eased his conscience, betook him- 
self to slumber likewise. But Leonora — what of her? 

With blanched lips, clenched teeth, and haggard 
features, she speeds on through the nearly deserted 



262 



GRINS AND WRINKLES. 



streets of the great city. There are few passengers 
abroad at that hour to notice the strange contrast of 
her dress and manner, and those who perchance do 
look after her, feel little or no curiosity. Female 
wretchedness is too common in London to excite 
sympathy. 

Yet, by a strange coincidence, she passed uncon- 
sciously two gentlemen arm-in-arm, one of whom 
was Woodby. He looked after her. His heart, 
which was good, was touched by the hopeless woe 
of her countenance. He had half-withdrawn his 
arm from that of his companion to obey the first 
generous impulse, to follow her in all purity of 
motive, and gently and respectfully to inquire if her 
distress was of such a nature as could be lightened 
by his assistance. But his fast friend checked him : 
" Pshaw ! "Woodby, it only a 'plant' to take in such 
green, soft-hearted fellows as you are." The young 
man who, as we have seen, was a martyr to false 
shame, was not proof against the raillery of his 
companion, — inferior to him both in head and heart. 
He allowed himself to be led on, though not quite at 
ease; for his conscience whispered to him that it 
was no "plant; " that the misery on that face was 
no counterfeit ; and thus Leonora was borne away 
from this last chance of salvation. Had Woodby 
addressed her, who knows what fortunate turn might 
have been given to her future, o'er which the wing 
of destiny is darkly brooding ? 

A kind word, a disinterested offer of friendship, 



THE DOOMED SISTERS (CONCLUDED) . 263 

one refreshing drop of the milk of human kindness, 
of brotherhood, falling at that moment into her cup 
of bitterness, something to bring back for one instant 
a faith in man and virtue, — to drive back the black 
sea of despair closing over her heart, to give her 
a little time for reflection, and Leonora might 
have ; but let us not anticipate our tale. 

w? 'f Mr ^P 7T? 

On the following evening, Clifford was standing 
in the passage of the house in which Leonora lived, 
holding a colloquy with Catherine. He appeared 
agitated at what she had been telling him. 

" What ! " he repeated, in faltering tones, " not 
been out of her room, and eaten nothing all day ? " 

" Jfo, sir," replied Catherine ; " she left partic'ler 
orders last night as how she wasn't to be disturbed 
not on no account till you come, — and I'm so glad 
you're come, sir; Miss will be sure to see you." 

" Perhaps," said Clifford, his uneasiness visibly 
increasing, — " perhaps she's ill." 

"Well, sir, I did feel oneasy," replied the girl, 
" for she looked mortal pale last night ; but when I 
asked her w T asn't she well, she made answer, 'it was 
nothink ; she would soon be quite well,' and then she 
smiled, (you know how sweet Miss Leonora do 
smile, sir !) and kissed me, and her lips was main cold, 
and told me again to be sure and not to disturb 
her until you came, but you was to be let go up at 
oncet. And, indeed, I did make bold to knock at 
her door twice to-day, to see if she wanted nothink, 



264 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

and she there all day so lonesome, but she never 
made no answer no more nor if she war dead. — Law* 
sir, ain't you well? " cried the girl, suddenly, as she 
saw Clifford stagger, and lean heavily against the 
bannisters. "Do you think anythink's come to 
Miss Leonora, sir? Hadn't you better go up at 
oncet ? '.' 

Clifford ascended the stairs without replying, 
followed by Catherine on tip-toe. Oh, how his 
heart smote against his ribs, as he blundered up those 
crooked stairs ! How dark, and silent, and lonely, 
it is on the upper landing ! A foreboding of evil 
has seized him. He is afraid to knock at the door. 
At length, he does so, tremblingly. No reply ! 
Perhaps she is asleep. He knocks louder 

" Leonora ! " he cries aloud ; " dear Leonora, it is 
I! — Heartly — Clifford! Do you not recognise my 
voice ? I have come to fetch you " 

Oh, the agony of that dismal silence after the 
echoes of his own voice have died away ! Now he 
thunders at the door, for horrible misgivings arise. 
" Leonora ! are you asleep, or ill? Speak, for God's 
sake, speak /" Once more that fearful silence. Any 
certainty is a relief to that terrible suspense. With 
a rush against the door, the lock gives way. He 
en ters . 

The room is in great confusion ; the rich 



dress which Leonora had worn the previous evening 
is lying in the middle of the floor. The curtains of 
the bed are half-drawn, and on a chair by the bed- 



THE DOOMED SISTERS (CONCLUDED). 265 

side an open and a sealed letter, with pen and ink. 
But, long before noting those things, the fire-place 
tightly closed by a board, the shut windows, the pan 
of charcoal, and the deadly atmosphere, show too 
plainly what has happened. Clifford rushes to the 
be^, and draws aside the curtain, and there, in her 
coarse black dress, lies Leonora, looking so pure, so 
calm, so beautiful, with such a heavenly rest upon 
her features, that you might almost fancy she is 
sleeping ; but she is DEAD ! 

O Death, stern comforter, last refuge of the desti- 
tute and forlorn, how lovely canst thou appear during 
that brief space — 

" Ere the first day of death hath fled, 
The first dark day of nothingness, 
The last of danger and distress ; 
Before decay's effacing fingers 
Have swept the lines where beauty lingers." 

On first discovering the body Clifford uttered a 
loud cry, which was echoed by Catherine, who now 
stood screaming and wringing her hands, repeating, 
u She's dead, she's dead !" Suddenly he seized her 
by the arm. "Run," he exclaimed, "for the nearest 
doctor, or apothecary — perhaps it is not too late — 
I will make his fortune if he brings her back to 
life." Catherine rushed from the room, while Clif- 
ford knelt down beside Leonora ; pressed his hancj 
upon her heart, and endeavoured to ascertain if any 
spark of life still existed. " Too late, too late," he 
groaned ; " she is cold and stiff ! " and he hid his 



266 



GRINS AND WRINKLES. 



face in his hands, and swayed his body to and fro 
in the impulse of his grief; giving way to the most 
violent transports of sorrow : beating his breast, 
tearing his hair, and calling on the inanimate body of 
his victim. Suddenly his eye fell upon the letters 
on the chair by the bed-side. One was, as he had 
suspected, the letter from Mary Osborne. The other 
was sealed and addressed to himself. He tore it 
open and read as follows : — 

" Four o'Clock in the Morning." 
" Did you wonder at what you thought my caprice, 
last night? When this meets your eye you will 
learn why I shrank from your embrace — why I 
sought death rather than support the consciousness 
that I had put myself in your power, and was about 
— may God forgive me ! — to love you — above all men. 
My going to your house, last night, was providential. 
If I had not, I might never have made the discovery, 
till too late, that Mary Osborne, the girl whom you 
seduced, under a promise of marriage, nearly five 
years ago — who became in consequence what the 
world calls an abandoned woman, and died repentant 
in my arms a year and a half since — (an old letter in 
whose hand-writing, addressed to you by your real 
name of Edward Paul Clifford, I have now in my 
possession) — was identical with Minnie Mansell, and 
was my younger sister. You will wonder no longer, 
Clifford, that I have preferred death to the harrowing 
conviction that I had laid myself under obligations 



THE DOOMED SISTERS (CONCLUDED). 267 

to you ; that I had begun to love yon, the destroyer of 
my sister. The kiss I left on your brow, last night, 
was my farewell, and the token of my forgiveness for 
the ruin you have wrought to me and mine. I have 
kept my promise to the letter. I said, if you came, 
you would be sure to find me. I have one last request 
to make. I should like a prayer said over me when 
they put me in the ground. But if you have not 
interest enough to prevent me, a suicide, from being 
laid in an unblessed grave, at least do not leave me to 

a pauper's funeral ; but let me lie in cemetery, 

beside my mother and sister." 

The mystery was indeed cleared up for Clifford. 
The sun comes out and brightens the desolate-look- 
ing chimney-pots, and imparts a ray of cheerfulness 
to that poor room. He peeps in at the window and 
shines upon that form so still and motionless, and 
gilds the raven tresses, and flits across the glazed 
eyes, late so full of lustre, which never more will 
blench from his dazzling rays. Will that sad con- 
science-stricken mourner, kneeling by the bed-side, 
who, for any sound or stir that he makes, might be a 
marble figure, be able to fulfil the last request of 
Leonora? Or will the coroner and his wiseacres 
come, and bending their hard, practical gaze upon 
that lovely form, record a verdict — " Died, in a fit 
of temporary aberration of mind, by her own act?" 
And while comfortable, respectable people are read- 
ing the paragraph, with virtuous indignation at the 



268 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

wickedness of the age when a young person in that 
♦walk of life can commit suicide without any osten- 
sible motive, and thanking God that they too have 
their trials, but that they know their duty too well 
to shrink from them, — will all that is mortal of 
Leonora — so fair, so young, so good, the solace and 
support of her aged parent, the best of sisters and 
of daughters, who preferred death to a dishonoured, 
vicious life — be thrust into an obscure, unblessed 
grave, and there an end, so far as this world is 
concerned. 

Alas, for thee, Leonora ! thy fate is but the type 
of many. But thy woes are o'er. Scoff, contumely, 
and wrong can pursue thee no further. How inno- 
cent or how guilty thou wert, the great tide of 
humanity, in the mighty metropolis, will not care to 
know ; and the question will swell that mysterious 
list of social evils, so perplexing to mortality, which 
only a Superior Intelligence may unravel. The 
imagination, however, will not brook constraint ; and 
while regarding that young corpse in that mean 
garret, how strange, how awful the thought that 
the soul, so heavily tried, suffering, miserable, and 
despised on earth, may have taken its flight to 
angels in paradise, and found a pardon at that 
tribunal where the ever-changing, conflicting, un- 
just opinions of men are powerless to afflict it,— 
where " The wicked cease from troubling, and the 
weary are at rest," 



269 
REMARKS 

ILLUSTRATIVE OF THE LIFE, CHARACTER, HABITS, CONVERSATION, ETC., OP 

MR. RICHARD LOVELARK, 

STUDENT OF THE VETERINARY COLLEGE, EDINBURGH. 



" Ah, me ! in sooth he was a shameless wight, 
Sore given to revel and ungodly glee." 

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. 

If at the expiration of our first week's acquaintance 
with Mr. Eichard Lovelark, Veterinary Student, 
&c. (commonly called, among his companions, 
Dick Lovelark the Vet.), we hesitated to avow 
ourselves perfectly au fait in all the depths and 
shoals, lights and shadows of his character, we should 
be doing an injustice to our own insight into human 
nature, and to the remarkably frank, open, and 
ingenuous disposition of our friend — the young gentle- 
man in question. 

Indeed, the very first interview we enjoyed with 
Mr. Lovelark afforded us an extremely favourable 
opportunity of judging of his tastes and pursuits. 
No question relative either to history, the arts, the 
sciences in general, the belles lettres, or that par- 
ticular branch of knowledge which Mr. Lovelark 
Is supposed to be studying, was discussed on that 
occasion, although we plied him with all; but we 



270 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

distinctly remember a communication made to us 
in a very husky voice by Mr. L., that he felt 
" rather jolly/' in consequence of having been the 
previous evening "a little how-come-ye-so," which 
followed from his being the previous evening but 
one, " sprung," which condition was a sequence from 
having been " high " the night before that — all 
which apparently harmless expressions implied that 
Mr. Lovelark had been for a w T eek tapering off from 
an alarming degree of intoxication, denoted by the 
word " spifflicated" 

On more intimate acquaintance with Mr. Lovelark, 
we found no reason whatever to doubt the truth of 
these assertions, communicated gratuitously to us, 
with the genial eagerness of one w T ho is narrating a 
worthy action deserving of applause. Whatever may 
be Mr. Lovelark' s faults, he certainly cannot be 
charged with slighting the celebrated precept of the 
Greek sage, "Know thyself." 

Mr. Lovelark, when we first had the pleasure of 
his acquaintance, occupied lodgings opposite to the 
Veterinary College, under the very eye of his tutor 

and guardian, Professor C . We remember 

being struck with the peculiarly variable manner in 
which this circumstance seemed to impress itself on 
the mind of the young gentleman, as a natural and 
urgent incentive to diligent study, and propriety of 
behaviour. An early visitor would have found Mr. 
L. going to breakfast, his room fragrant with red- 
herring, which his kind and attentive landlady is 



MR. RICHARD L0VELARK. 271 

preparing. His books are laid out preparatory to 

study: on the Horse, and on the Dog, besides 

the Elements of Chemistry. Uninterrupted months 
of future hard reading are the least expectation from 

this gallant show. The heart of Professor C 

would expand with joy, could he now behold his 
hopeful apprentice. Could the fond eyes of his 
maternal parent look upon him, she would dread 
consumption from this fanatical devotion to his books. 
Mr. Lovelark himself seems thoroughly imbued 
with the sense of the necessity of hard reading, and 

of preserving Professor C 's good opinion ; and 

if he yields to the entreaties of a brother " Vet," to 
go down to Mistress Macsiller's bar for a glass d'yill 
(anglice ale), how careful is he to ascertain the 
previous closing of the outer-door, lest the lynx 
eyes of the Professor should detect him on the common 
stair. 

Shakspere has said that u one man in his time plays 
many parts," but who could be prepared for the com- 
plete revulsion of sentiment manifested by Mr. L. 
ere the conclusion of the same day? Who could 
dream that ere the sun had set, his devotion to study 
would have given place to a devotion to drink — his 

salutary awe of Professor C and his landlady 

alike forgotten, and replaced by the most callous 
indifference to the opinion of those individuals or the 
world in general? Who could imagine that the 
diligent student of the morning could be identical 
with the uproarious individual standing in the street 



272 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

between three and four in the morning, in full view of 
the Professor's windows; and on being denied admit- 
tance to his lodgings at that unseemly hour, loudly 
proclaiming his independence of everything and every- 
body, and invoking the most fearful maledictions 
upon the college, the professors in general, and old 

C in particular, who is awaked from a sound 

sleep in time to hear and treasure up this nocturnal 
benediction from the lips of his trusty pupil ? 

Why attempt to conceal the fact that Mr. 
Lovelark's habits are convivial ? How else account 
for his frequent and protracted absences from home? 
— unless, indeed, we come to the more charitable 
conclusion that Mr. L. is a member of some secret 
society (like the Fehm-gerichte of the Middle Ages), or 
otherwise engaged in transacting business of great 
importance ; or else that he is liable to fits of absence 
of mind, and strangely oblivious of the lapse of time, 
since he is often detained by these mysterious 
demands, whole days and nights continuously, from 
home. It would seem, moreover, in accordance with 
this supposition, that he is suddenly released from 
these engagements, and aroused to the necessity of 
making up for lost time; causing him to appear 
before his lodgings at a most inconvenient and 
unseasonable hour in the silent watches of the night, 
startling the whole neighbourhood by the eagerness 
of his demands to be admitted to the scene of his 
labours. 

Another peculiarity of Mr. Lovelark is the dif- 



MR. RICHARD LOVELARK. 273 

ficulty, or rather impossibility, of deciding when he 
has arrived at the last stage, or " Ultima Thule" of 
intoxication. For instance, we have met him fre- 
quently of a morning, when to pronounce him drunk 
would indeed be libellous, on the ground that the 
greater the truth the greater the libel. In the after- 
noon we have blushed for our aspersion of character, 
for sober Mr. Lovelark teas to what he now is. Yet 
in the evening, at the theatre, Mr. Lovelark has 
signalized himself as the gallant leader of a row in 
the students' gallery, necessitating his expulsion by 
the joint efforts of sundry " peelers," for Mr. Love- 
lark does not succumb readily to lawful authority ; — 
late at night we ourself have assisted in conveying 
him home, apparently helpless, and after resisting 
repeated efforts to lie down in the gutter and on the 
common stair, have got him into his room ; where 
we were obliged to humour him in his fixed deter- 
mination of retiring to rest with his hat on his head, 
and his boots on, having previously removed his 
neckcloth. Now surely the goal is achieved ; now 
surely Mr. Lovelark w T ill slumber profoundly on his 
couch. — You are mistaken : in an hour or so Mr. 
Lovelark will rise in his might, like a giant 
refreshed — signs of commotion will be observed in the 
street — and " crushers," attracted to the spot by the 
smashing of window-glass, will arrive too late to 
intercept Mr. L.'s flight, notified by a sheet hanging 
from the window of his bed-room. 

The next morning we are gently prepared for 

x 



274 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

these tidings by a note from Dick, written in shaky- 
characters, as though he were suffering under St. 
Vitus's dance, and dated from a tavern, to this ex- 
traordinary effect : — 

"My dear Fellow, — I'm ashamed to say I got regularly 
spiflicated after you left me the other night. I believe I 
broke some windows and did same other foolish things, 
though what thev were I have not the most remote 
idea, for my head is spinning round like a humming- 
top, and my coppers are so hot that the water from 
the ewer, which I have nearly emptied, actually 
hisses down my throat. You will see I am at i the 
York ' where I must remain in quod till I see you, 
as I have not a bob left. Come and pay the bill, 
and let me out — there's a good fellow. 
" Yours, &c, &c, 

"Richard Loyelark." 

The information that he got " regularly spiflicated " 
after parting with us, is perplexing ; as, to the utmost 
of our belief, we had left him in that state at one in 
the morning; but we have compassion on the state of 
Dick's head and stomach, being wiser than the old 
lady who felt perfectly convinced " her son didn't 
drink over .night, 'cause he always woke up thirsty 
and emptied the water-bottle the first thing in the 
morning," and accordingly we rush to redeem Dick 
from " durance vile " at the York hotel. 

It follows as a self-evident proposition, from the 



MR. RICHARD LOVELARK. 275 

facts already laid before the reader, that Mr, Love- 
lark would be one of the last people in the world 
likely to excel in writing his autobiography, being 
indebted to the kind communication of his friends 
for his own history during a great part of the pre- 
vious day. 

Another of Mr. Lovelark's peculiarities may be 
expressed in the chaste language of Mr. Micawber, 
as "a wonderful facility in disposing of available 
property. 5 ' Acting up to the letter of the precept 
which enjoins us to "let the morrow take care of 
itself/' and to " take no thought what we shall wear/' 
&c, Mr. L. pawns, or, as he more classically 
defines it, "pops " one article of clothing after 
another, as fast as he is in want of money ; and so 
early had he recourse to this method of raising 
supplies, that no sooner had his venerable parent, or 
(to quote Dick again) " the old man," vanished from 
his eyes, by the railway, than our hopeful young 
gentleman handed over to the care of his " uncle " 
two suits of clothes; Mr. Lovelark, senior, having, 
for weighty reasons, limited his supply of ready 
money to a sum quite inadequate to carry out the 
views and wishes of Mr. Lovelark, junior. 

This habit of Dick's is productive of two results. 
The first is, that he is quite an adept in discovering 
and tracing out, in spite of their ineligible and obscure 
localities, all those establishments whose commercial 
transactions are typified by the design of three golden 
halls. We believe there is not one of such establish- 

t 2 



276 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

ments which has preserved its incognito from the 
prying gaze and indefatigable researches of Mr. 
Lovelark, whether situated in the Old or New Town ; 
and very few at which he has not transacted business 
to some amount, varying from a dress coat to a 
pocket-handkerchief; and it is but justice to him to 
say, that in the pursuit of business he disregards 
appearances, and neither the dirtiest nor the most 
intricate " closes " repel him while thus employed. 

We dwell upon this trait? because in other respects 
Mr. Lovelark's acquaintance with a city boasting so 
many subjects of classical interest is by no means 
extensive — nay, on the contrary, extremely limited. 
He certainly had not visited Holyrood Palace, or the 
Castle, w T hen we made his acquaintance. It is true 
we have seen him in an unconscious state in the house 
to which tradition assigns the distinction of having 
been tenanted by John Knox, in the Canongate; 
but as this house (to the honour of Edina be it 
spoken!) has been converted into a dram-shop, we 
cannot attribute Mr. Lovelark's presence there to 
any reverence for antiquity; nor do we believe that 
his condition of stupefaction had anything whatever 
to do with the feeling that he was on classic ground — 
a fact, indeed, of which he was wholly ignorant until 
we communicated it to him on his awaking, parched 
with thirst, on the following day. Nor had Mr. 
Lovelark heard of Preston -Pans, or Linlithgow, 
Hawthornden, and many other of the celebrated spots 
to which tourists are continually resorting, in the 



MR. RICHARD LOVELARK. 277 

neighbourhood of Edinburgh, with the exception of 
Newhaven, with which he was well acquainted, as 
producing some of the finest physical specimens of 
womanhood in the world, and likewise celebrated for 
its fish dinners. We may remark that this philo- 
sophical indifference on Dick's part astonished not a 
little his family (residing in England), whose queries 
respecting " the lions " of Edinburgh, and remarkable 
spots in the neighbourhood of " Auld Reekie," were 
becoming so frequent in the letters directed from 
home, as to be a serious cause of perplexity to Mr. 
Lovelark. 

The other result of these frequent professional 
visits to his "uncle" is the remarkably variable appear- 
ance presented by Mr. Lovelark's outer man, Rarely, 
if ever, does he wear, two days running, the same 
vest, or hat, articles of apparel which he receives 
from his friends, more, as it would seem, with the 
view to present convenience than as souvenirs, since 
they all share the same fate, that of being transferred 
to the care of the avuncular relative aforesaid. With 
regard to his hat, it is generally lost on the first or 
second day after it is borrowed, from being knocked 
off his head in a scuffle (a species of pastime in which 
Mr. Lovelark often indulges, no doubt with the view 
of aiding digestion), picked up, and carried off to the 
pawn-shop by some looker-on of communist principles 
(while its temporary proprietor is either giving or 
receiving a couple of black eyes) ; so that the article 
in question finds its way eventually to its ultimate 



278 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

destination, though not through the hands of Mr. 
Lovelark himself. 

The reader who has followed with any interest 
our remarks so far, relative to the character of Mr. 
Lovelark, will doubtless seek some information as to 
his personal appearance. Mr. Lovelark, then, is tall 
and strongly made, with comely features, and his 
tout ensemble might be pronounced genteel, even 
elegant, were it not that, owing to the somewhat 
variegated effect of his borrowed wardrobe, consisting 
of articles of dress belonging to people of different 
shapes and sizes, it is not set off to the best advantage. 

Like many great men of all times, Mr. Lovelark's 
pow T ers of originality are displayed to most advantage 
when more or less under the influence of stimulus. 
At ordinary moments he is so little remarkable for a 
spontaneous flow of ideas, that he might, by a casual, 
superficial observer, be pronounced almost dull. Yet 
after a certain number of libations^ we have heard a 
stream of improvisatore imagery issue from his lips, 
which certainly was fluent, though, from the frequent 
repetition of many words and phrases not to be found 
in any English dictionary, and yet in common use 
among the youth of Great Britain, the words eloquent 
and chaste might not be considered as strictly appli- 
cable. 

Indeed, we cannot justly estimate Mr. Lovelark's 
character without admitting that he has shown more 
ability for the acquirement technically termed chaffing r , 
than for any branch of his medical studies, or, indeed* 



MR. RICHARD LOVELARK. 279 

for any other pursuit or accomplishment ; and in the 
lively play of repartee which this difficult art demands, 
as well as in the frolicsome concomitant of executing 
"no-popery" dances, Mr. Lovelark has won great 
renown and deserved applause from his fellow "vets." 
and gained many triumphs over indignant cabmen, 
porters of the High Street, and Newhaven fishwomen. 
Should it ever be in contemplation with Mr. 
Lovelark's friends to present him with a portrait of 
himself, we would suggest the propriety of por- 
traying him as he appears to most advantage, and 
would be most easily recognised by those who enjoy 
his intimacy — neither at his studies, nor in the lecture- 
room (for there, indeed, his visits are like angels', 
" few and far between "), but, presiding at a convivial 
meeting. No one who has not seen Mr. Lovelark 
on such an occasion can be said to have seen him at 
all. It is then, and there, that he shines forth in his 
real character, all his diffidence, all his incapacity 
(if we may be allowed so strong an expression) 
swallowed up in the eager zeal with which he enters 
into a practical exposition of the sentiment of the 
Epicurean bard, " Nunc est bibendum>fratres? Then, 
like all truly great men, he proves himself equal to 
the occasion, and in the hour of trial rises to meet 
the emergency. With his hat (invariably w r hite and 
steeple-crowned, and somewhat battered, owing pro- 
bably to an eccentric habit which Mr. Lovelark has 
of throwing it at dogs at night) set very much on 
one side of his head, a long clay-pipe in his mouth, 



280 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

and a tankard by his side, Mr. L. singeth several 
songs remarkable for accurate accentuation of the 
Yorkshire dialect. We have heard him give the 
" Death of Nelson," and there is this peculiarity in 
Mr. L.'s harmony, that all his songs are adapted 
to the same tune, which has a novel and striking 
effect. 

If it is decided that the meeting should end in a 
wet evening, then, after summoning an incredible 
array of bottles of whisky, the door is locked, and 
the key thrown out of the window (an ominous 
hint to any degenerate student who may happen to 
be in company). Each man sleeps where he falls, 
and Mr. Lovelark " sinks to rest " on the hard floor, 
happy as a lord, embracing the leg of the table, in 
the vain attempt to draw it over him as a coverlet, 
under the impression that he is in his own crib, 
chez lui* 

But should the collective voice of the company be 
for "a lark," then, at the approach of the small 
hours, Mr. Lovelark, spurning inglorious ease, rises 
and summons the admiring circle of his friends, in a 
voice (husky, no doubt from emotion), to action, and 
reeling forth as if o'erwhelmed with the magnitude 
of his own thoughts, leads the way through the 
streets of " Auld Reekie," in search of adventures. 
Woe betide the adventurous passenger, who, with an 
overweening conceit in his own powers, attempts, 
on such an occasion, to vie with Mr. Lovelark in 
the art of chaffing , or the unlucky "peeler/' who, 



MR. RICHARD L0VELARK. 281 

single-handed, ventures to resent the opprobrious 
words hurled at himself and his office. Nay, even 
when the guardian of the peace, like "an ancient and 
most quiet watchman," is playing a neutral part, he 
is by no means secure from the enterprising malevo- 
lence of Mr. Lovelark and friends ; for Dick, who is 
as wily as he is courageous, will throw the man off 
his guard, by accosting him in a friendly manner, 
asking, perhaps, some such simple question as, "What's 
o'clock?" and while the unsuspecting " crusher" is 
tugging at the huge time-piece in his fob, he will 
find himself abruptly necessitated to measure his 
length on the pavement, from the unexpected and 
scientific application of Mr. L.'s fist immediately 
under his chin. After such an event, as may be 
imagined, it is sauve qui peut with the students ; for 
the man invariably rises and pursues, nursing the 
most unphilosophical and unchristian ideas of 
vengeance on his assailants. 

It may easily be concluded that Mr. L., pur- 
suing thus his own peculiar curriculum of study 
(which may be summed up as smoking, drinking, 
chaffing, fighting, billiard-playing, &c), cannot exactly 
fulfil or satisfy the wishes of his guardian and parent, 
respecting those professional avocations to which he 
is nominally a pupil. His attendance at lectures is 
so irregular that his presence has begun to be con- 
sidered more remarkable than his absence. Nor is 
this the worst, for frequently he attends in a state of 
mental pre-occupation and personal disorder, which 



282 GJRINS AND WRINKLES. 

would cause any unprejudiced observer confidently 
to pronounce him intoxicated. On such occasions he 
is only smuggled in by his friends on the previously 
specified condition, that he is to sit quite still, and 
behave himself with the utmost gravity and decorum. 
Let us endeavour, then, to imagine the horror of all 
present, when, after the lapse of half-an-hour, during 
which Dick has sat on one of the back benches of 
the theatre, or class-room, (to avail ourself of the 
classic expression of a brother u vet. 9 n ) "mooning 
away " at the lecturer, and trying to see one instead 
of two, the breathless silence which has prevailed 
during an interesting chemical experiment is broken 
by a loud ululation, beginning low and increasing in 
shrillness and intensity ; in short, an exact specimen 
of the Indian war-whoop. Need we say the performer 
is Mr. Lovelark, who, after prolonging his gratuitous 
solo to the full compass of his voice and lungs, and to 
the verge of deafening his agonized hearers, suddenly 
ceasing, starts wildly from his seat, with a frantic 
demonstration of grappling with the lecturer, Pro- 
fessor C , crying at the same time, " Let me get 

at the red-haired villain ! " 

From such an escapade we may imagine the 
striking discrepancy in the letters received by Mr. 

Lovelark, senior, from Professor C , and his son, 

relative to the latter' s studies. Be it mentioned here 
that Mr. Lovelark, junior, is so averse to epistolary 
correspondence of any kind, that it is probable he 
would never write home at all, did not pinching 



MR. RICHARD LOVELARK. 283 

poverty prompt him to this fulfilment of filial duty. 
Yet on such occasions, with a modest mistrust of his 
own literary abilities, Dick invariably calls in the 
assistance of a friend, and concocts a letter to the 
governor, informing him, " that though he was 
certainly, at one time, a little inattentive to his 
studies, he has been much more regular of late, &c. ; 
that he is giving much more satisfaction to the pro- 
fessors, &c. ; that he has need at present of a further 
remittance to meet some very pressing demands for 
class-books, and other items of necessary expenditure 
connected with his studies," &c, &c, &c. 

Unfortunately for the effect of this epistle in 
softening the obdurate bosom of Paterfamilias, by 
the same mail arrives another letter from the Pro- 
fessor, giving a diametrically opposite account of 
Dick's conduct, stating that the latter hardly ever 
appears at lectures ; that when he does show, it is 
invariably in a condition of the most disgusting and 
deplorable intoxication, and winding up with a very 
decided paragraph, to the purport, that Dick, or Mr. 
Richard Lovelark, is going direct and express to a 
certain well-known individual, not necessary to name. 
The consequence of which contradictory intelligence 
is, as may be supposed, that all further supplies from 
the paternal source are cut off, and Dick is made 
more than ever dependent for "tin" on his "uncle." 

Gladly would he betake himself to that relative ; 
but at length even this resource fails, for, alas ! he has 
nothing, either of his own or his friends', which he 



284 GRINS AND WRINKLES, 

can leave as a deposit, and though he casts a longing 
glance on several moveables in his chamber, he feels 
that to elude the argus eyes of his landlady would be 
impossible. Sundry bright projects for raising the 
wind float through his brain, for Dick, though he 
cannot compose a letter without help, never mistrusts 
his own abilities when inspired by that glorious 
mother of invention — necessity. 

The first of these notable schemes is to turn Papist ; 
Mr. L. entertaining the primitive idea that for a simple 
profession of the Roman faith (a proceeding which will 
not involve any very painful sacrifice of feeling or 
principle on his part) 5 he will receive a very satis- 
factory reward in hard cash. We were compelled, 
however, to destroy this hope at once, on his consult- 
ing us as to the amount of the premium offered by 
the Papal Church for proselytes; and Dick, with a 
sigh, slowly and sadly abandons the idea. He then 
broaches his next resource, viz., to turn actor ; and 
insists on us then and there, though it happens to be 
Sunday (and Sunday in Scotland too), accompanying 
him to the managers of the different theatres, and 
acting as his spokesman. In vain do we endeavour 
to represent to him the inconsistency of expecting a 
theatrical engagement when he is not even com- 
petent to plead his own cause. Dick is obstinate, so 
we yield, and to satisfy him, make the attempt, well 
knowing it will be fruitless. The managers are, as 
we expected, deaf to our entreaties, and to our 
insinuations that Mr. Lovelark would make a valuable 



MR. RICHARD LOVELARK. 285 

auxiliary to the company for minor parts, such as 
walking gentlemen, and the like, where the superi- 
ority of his person might fully counterbalance the 
deficiency of previous stage-training. " No, sir," 
says the last manager of whom we have audience ; 
"with all due deference to your opinion, the 
Theatre Royal of Edinburgh is not the place 
where a tyro is to make his first appearance. Are 
you aware, sir, that it takes a year, at the least, 
for an amateur to learn to stand still on the stage ? 
I have the honour of wishing you and your friend 
good morning." 

On our way along Prince's Street one day, Dick 
bowed to a young lady, who returned his salutation 
most graciously. Never were we more astounded 
in our life ! '■ Good heavens, Dick ! " said we on 
the first opportunity, " that was a young lady you 
spoke to ! " 

" To be sure it was," said our friend. 
" And she returned your bow ; you are acquainted 
with her? " 

" Of course I am ; what of it" ? 
We did not think proper to disclose the causes 
of our astonishment, as they were not at all com- 
plimentary to Dick. In fact, up to that morning 
we had not been aware that Dick numbered, 
among his female acquaintance in Edinburgh, one 
respectable young woman ! 

The young lady in question is of highly eligible 
parentage, and we afterwards discovered that, to 
Dick, she is more than an acquaintance; in short, 



286 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

that Mr. Lovelark views her with the eyes of affec- 
tion ; to use his own expression, is " sweet upon 
her." We fear, however, that unless the young 
lady be of an unusually amiable disposition, and 
singularly above vulgar prejudices, Dick will never 
win her, without thoroughly changing his present 
method of paying " his distresses" viz. : calling at 
her house in the evening, and on gaining admission, 
laying himself down at full length in the hall and 
falling fast asleep ; being found in a speechless state 
on the common stairs," &c, &c. 

We have taken Dick to task often for his dissipated 
habits, and, to do him justice, he receives our rebukes 
in good part. Only once we remember he persisted 
in entering a free-and-easy music-hall, on the plea of 
wishing to see character. Mr. Lovelark's method of 
" seeing character" on this occasion (for w T e entered 
afterwards and watched him unperceived), was to fall 
fast asleep, with his head on the table, after emptying 
his fourth glass of whisky-toddy. 

" To do anything like justice to the subject of our 
memoir," as biographers say, would require a volume, 
but our limits compel us to draw this imperfect 
sketch to a close. So hard up then was Dick, that 
he was beginning to think seriously of enlisting in 
a cavalry regiment, as a forlorn hope, when — 
(whether by the influence of his good or evil genius 
future events will decide) — all his fears of immediate 
want were dissipated by an unforeseen occurrence, 
involving relief from an unexpected quarter. Dick 
had now got so very wild, that both his father and 



MR. RICHARD LOVELARK. 287 

guardian, Professor C , threatened to have 

nothing more to do with him. He was constantly 
"flitting" owing to the irregularity of his hours, 
which imposed on the patience of his various land- 
ladies, even too much for that privileged being — a 
medical student. His last landlady, however, though 
a bit of a shrew, was, on the whole, inclined to take 
his part, and make him comfortable. During Dick's 
absence one day, we had been talking her over, and 
we had both arrived at the conclusion that Dick had 
been hardly used, both by his father and guardian, 
and was not so bad a boy after all. We had but just 
left, it seems (as we afterwards learnt), when the 
young gentleman himself made his appearance, and 
in his most quarrelsome stage of intoxication. How 
the fracas began, we do not exactly know. We 
believe his landlady expostulated with him for not 
rubbing the dirt off his shoes, for knocking the 
furniture about, or for some other cause. However, 
the offence was given, and Dick opened upon her 
a furious volley of chaff, calling her a " wretched 
menial" declaring that he valued her less than the 
"smallest end of a dead cat's tail," with other equally 
recherche epithets, from his well-stocked repertory of 
student slang. In five minutes all our good offices 
were completely effaced. His landlady entered on 
the wordy conflict with all the zeal of an Amazon. 
She hurled back the charge of u w T retched menial " — 
she " came of as gude kith and kin as ony English 
pock-pudding in the land." She dwelt long on the 



288 GRINS AND WRINKLES, 

fact, and recurred to it again and again, with a truly 
scriptural simplicity of repetition, that she had a 
small property of her own,— for the sneer at her 
poverty seemed to affect her deeply ; she declared 
that it served her right for letting her rooms to horse- 
doctors and " dir-r-rt of that kind " (snapping her 
fingers a la Meg Dods) and disparaged the noble art 
of veterinary surgery, as the most mean and despi- 
cable of trades. She spoke well and to the purpose, 
and it was no discredit to her if she was foiled by the 
superior volubility of Mr. Lovelark ; who, watching 
his opportunity when his antagonist paused (to do 
her justice) only to take breath, poured in such an 
overwhelming flood of cool, cutting sarcasm that his 
landlady, aghast, had no resource but to declare he 
should pack out of her house that very night. Dick 
fired a parting volley of chaff, snapped his fingers 
in her face, and departed forthwith. 

In the street he gave further vent to his feelings 
by shying his hat at a dog. This act was resented 
by the dog's owner, whom Dick affirmed to be a 
tailor, with many opprobious epithets* A war of 
words followed, till the man, losing temper com- 
pletely at the contemptuous appellations, "ninth 
part of a man," "knight of the thimble and steel-bar," 
struck Dick with his fist, who immediately returned 
the compliment with a bottle of whisky, which he 
had in his pocket, and floored his antagonist. The 
upshot of the affair was, that Dick was taken into 
custody and provided with gratuitous board and 



MR. RICHARD LOVELARK. 289 

lodging, for a month, at his country's expense, in the 
Calton gaol, with wholesome recreation in the shape 
of picking oakum. 



Two years after this event, we encountered Mr. 
Lovelark, by the merest accident, in London, a 
changed and reformed man. We could hardly recog- 
nise the identity of the wild, harum-scarum Edin- 
burgh student, with the spruce, well-dressed indi- 
vidual who accosted us. Dick dates his reformation 
from the day of his confinement. He had leisure to 
reflect oyer the miserable use to which he had been 
putting his time and his abilities. He made a reso- 
lution to turn over a new leaf, and kept it. No 
sooner was he free than he dropped all his idle 
acquaintances, gave up whisky, applied himself 
diligently to study, and in due time won back his 
father's good opinion, and the approbation of Pro- 
fessor C . He has commenced the practice 

of his profession ; has now a large and increasing 
connexion, and is engaged to the young lady who 
was the object of his attachment in Edinburgh. 

Let us hope that Mr. Lovelark is but one of many 
young men destined to turn out useful and honest 
citizens, after sowing their " wild oats" 



290 



AUNT MARTHA'S FIRST AND ONLY 
LOVE. 

" With men love is an episode — with women it is often the 
sentiment of a life." — Anon. 

We always suspected Aunt Martha had had a love- 
trial in her youth. Frequently have we watched 
her turning over the pages of an album, or poring 
over a mysterious-looking bundle of old letters, and 
heard the smothered sigh, and seen the tear coursing 
down her cheek. On such occasions we have stolen 
gently from the room, or pretended deep absorption 
in our book, that we might not interrupt these 
sacred communings with memory. Once — we can- 
not tell exactly how the disclosure was brought 
about, or how Aunt Martha came to be in such a 
communicative mood — but she told us in substance 
the following story, which we shall retail for the 
reader's benefit in a connected form : — 

" Yes, you are right/' said Aunt Martha; " I have 
been in love once, and only once. When I was 
about nineteen, my brother came home to spend the 
summer vacation, and brought with him an intimate 
friend, whom he had often written to me about 
in his letters, but whom I had never yet seen. My 
brother had prepared me to expect a treat, and I 
was not disappointed. We lived then in a little 
village, beautifully situated, in a remote district of 



aunt Martha's first and only love. 291 

England, To a forward, sarcastic girl, as I was 
then, Mr. Singleton (Mark Singleton was his name) 
seemed a delightful acquaintance, after the clownish 

swains of . He was very handsome ; about 

one year older than myself; refined and accom- 
plished ; and united a great flow of spirits to gentle- 
ness of manner, and a fondness for sober, rational 
conversation, 

" His tastes and mine were very similar ; we both 
loved books ; he read to me his literary effusions, 
both in prose and verse, and begged me to criticise 
them. He viewed nature with the eye of a poet 
and an artist ; and many a happy hour, on a sum- 
mer's day, has flown by, as it seemed, almost too 
quickly, beguiled by his eloquent conversation. 
Never before had I seen any one who so thoroughly 
sympathised with me, or called forth my natural, 
heart-felt thoughts as Mr. Singleton did. I asked 
myself sometimes, if in the world, beyond the narrow 
circle of my experience, there were many such 
men, to make life pass gaily and happily, or if Mr. 
Singleton was one among a thousand ? 

"Before he had been with us a week I felt 
towards him like an old friend. I was convinced 
that he understood me, and read my heart, better 
than many whom I had known from childhood. He 
stayed with us two months, and so imperceptibly 
had my esteem and affection increased, that I never 
suspected, till the pang of separation taught me 5 
that I cherished for Mr. Singleton a feeling stronger 

XT 2 



292 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

than affection. The day before he went, he wrote 
some lines in my album. I was obliged to go away 
to read them, for my eyes were filled with tears. 

" ' Martha/ said he, with the familiarity of a 
friend, ' are all those tears for your brother's depar- 
ture, or may I not claim a share ? ' 

"I replied in the same vein of pleasantry, but 
with a heavy heart : 6 Partly for both, if it will not 
make you vain to think so/ 

" The last afternoon we spent together, we sat on 
the sofa for a long time, but said little. My heart I 
know was too full to speak, and I think he felt very 
sorrowful at going away; for he seemed to enjoy my 
society, and had more than once told me that he had 
never before had a lady friend who understood him. 
The parting moment came. My brother kissed me 
— so did Mr. Singleton, for the first and only time ; 
and when he was out of sight I tottered up to my 
room and lay down, and wept bitterly. Then, in the 
solitude of my own chamber, I confessed aloud that 
/ loved! that life was no longer to be the same 
round of little hopes, and fears, and duties, which it 
had been before I knew Mr. Singleton. Oh, that 
he had never come ! or never gone ! I could not 
forget that a heart congenial to my own beat apart. 

" It had been agreed that we should correspond, 
while he was living in the same town as my brother, 
about forty miles distant from my village. Our 
letters were filled with criticisms upon books — refer- 
ences to past pleasant hours — scenes and events 



aunt martha's first and only love. 293 

experienced during his visit — but nothing about love. 
It was a great consolation, after my first burst of 
grief, to receive his long, agreeable, clever letters. 
It made me feel that the link of our acquaintance 
was not yet severed. But it was to be ! Within a 
year Mr. Singleton removed to London, and then I 
knew that our friendship must virtually cease. I 
wrote him a farewell letter to this effect. With all 
the new agreeable methods of beo-uilino; time in the 
metropolis, what would he care for the letters of his 
obscure village friend ? 

" I received from him a beautiful and tender reply. 
The tears gushed from my eyes as I read it ; for it 
proved, as I expected, the termination to our corre- 
spondence. It w r as a blow, hardly, if at all, inferior 
to the former actual separation. Next to seeing 
him, and hearing him speak, and marking the play 
of his noble, intelligent features, it was (I knew not 
how great till I lost it) a privilege to read his letters. 
So I read the old ones over and over again ; but 
they only made me more wretched, to think that I 
had been so officious, that my precipitancy had 
severed the last link between us. Oh ! how I hoped 
against hope that a letter might still arrive from 
him ; that he might not have quite forgotten me, 
even in the whirl and vortex of London society, till 
I grew ill with anxiety and protracted suspense. 

" What hopes I built up and destroyed ! What 
conflicting thoughts I cherished! Foolish, simple 



294 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

girl, to judge of Mr. Singleton's affections by my 
own ; because, forsooth, I could never know another 
equal to him ; because the one image could never 
be superseded in my heart ; because I must con- 
tinue to dream on about him ; to imagine it 

probable, or possible, that he must remember me. 
Yet why not ? He said I understood him* The tears 
stood in his eyes, as well as mine, when we parted ; 
perhaps, in trials and disappointments, his thoughts 
might still recur to that pleasant visit, and the 
country-girl whose heart he had carried away* Oh, 
why had I been the first to break off the correspon- 
dence ! He would meet, in the course of his career, 
women more beautiful than I was, far more accom- 
plished than I could ever hope to be — but here, 
again, a thought the most bitter of any would 
intrude : — It might not be so if you had opportu- 
nities equal to your natural abilities. He made your 
acquaintance — an uncultivated country-girl — and 
liked you. Could your mental culture keep pace 
with his— -could you reside in cities, and rub off your 
rusticity, and learn those nameless refinements which 
mixture with the world alone can give, you might 
not be unworthy of him ; and this friendship, now 

doomed to oblivion, might ripen into oh ! it was 

hard to think that circumstances alone might keep 
asunder two congenial hearts ; that he might roam 
the world for years, seeking in vain some worthy 
partner, to lighten the load of existence ; while I, 



aunt martha's first and only love. 295 

who asked no greater blessing than to bask in the 
light of his smile, must drag out my days in solitude 
and seclusion. 

" Slowly I recovered my usual health. About this 
time I received a proposal of marriage from Mr. 
Barker, a young surgeon, who had been on terms of 
intimacy with our family for some years. I replied 
politely but firmly in the negative. This was the 
cause of much angry expostulation from my brother, 
and a nearer approach to a quarrel than we had ever 
had. He could not understand what he pleased to 
term my unaccountable caprice in rejecting Mr- 
Barker, such a sincere admirer ; one in every way 
so well calculated to make me an excellent husband, 
I remained firm, however, in my resolution. In 
the whole world there was but one man whom I 
should like to marry; and as this would never be, 
I was quite reconciled to the prospect of single 
blessedness. 

" Years passed by chequered by occasional intelli- 
gence respecting Mr. Singleton, which formed the 
only land-marks in my otherwise monotonous exist- 
ence. Once, I happened to read an article in a 
magazine which deeply interested me; but what 
were my surprise and delight when, at the end, I 
came suddenly on the name of Mark Singleton J I 
read it again hurriedly, then slowly; then again 
and again, paragraph by paragraph, sentence by 
sentence, almost word by word. Next to seeing 
and conversing with him, and devouring his letters, 



296 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

it was the greatest pleasure to read his thoughts in 
print, to find those ideas which he had uttered to 
me in private now put forth to the world. I fancied 
how he looked at his literary task : how the tear 
glistened in his eye over some pathetic passage ; how 
he smiled, or even laughed aloud, as he penned some 
piece of humour. There was no end to the fine castles 
in the air which I built for him on the strength of 
this article. He was to become a great author, 
rivalling the loftiest names, to whatever branch of 
literature he turned his serious attention. 

" At another time arrived, quite unexpectedly, a 
letter from Mr. Singleton to my brother, reverting to 
old times, assuring him that, though they had ceased 
to correspond, old friends and old associations were 
not forgotten. The reference to me did not imply 
that he considered me in any warmer light than that 
of a valued friend. There was another piece of 
intelligence in the letter : he had fallen in love, and 
had been disappointed. Why did I feel, even at 
this lapse of time, when I had learned to school my 
heart, and look upon Mr. Singleton only as a dear 
friend, a secret, undefinable pleasure at hearing he 
was still unmarried, though sympathising deeply 
with the sufferings he had undergone? Of one thing 
I felt convinced, that he was not to blame — that the 
woman who had jilted him must have been unworthy 
of such a boon as his affeection. 

"But the letter brought back a whole tide of 
recollections. I longed to see him again, not that 



ATJNT MARTHA'S FIRST AND ONLY LOVE. 297 

I dreamed of the possibility of his ever-loving 
me (no — the village-girl would form a striking 
contrast to the elegant and accomplished women 
whose acquaintance he had made), but I wished to 
note the improvement of mature manhood, which 
those intervening years had wrought, I took his 
likeness often in imagination, and contrasted it with 
my remembrance, and the sketch which I had myself 
taken of him at twenty. His cheek no longer 
smooth, but fringed with a dark, luxuriant whisker ; 
the countenance a trifle graver 3 with more of the 
majesty of intellect to compensate for a line or two 
of care ; the contour of the mouth more decided, 
but ever ready to relax into the same bewitching 
smile as of yore ; the full, bright, piercing eye, that 
seemed to scan your inmost soul. Such was Mr. 
Singleton as I now portrayed him in thought. 
He was a man to be loved at twenty, to be loved 
and reverenced at thirty." 

Aunt Martha heaved a deep sigh as she added: 
"There is no more to tell. I have never seen Mr. 
Singleton since he left that first pure and holy kiss 
upon my lips. He never returned to the village. 
I have since heard that he went abroad and married 
a foreign lady, and is now a widower, and still 
pursuing the literary profession, in which he has 
achieved success. He has had his own troubles and 
trials to occupy his thoughts, and, doubtless, has 
quite forgotten the old maid who is now speaking 
of him. But, until this heart cease to beat, there 



298 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

shall be one to do as she has ever done, and never 
let a day pass without a prayer ascending to heaven 
to bless and protect Mark Singleton, — my first and 
only love." 

Aunt Martha's voice broke down at the close of 
her story, and the cheerful, benignant smile refused to 
flit over her features as she rose abruptly and quitted 
the room. 



299 
THE ARTIST AND HIS FRIENDS. 

A DRAMATIC NARRATIVE. 



" Quot homines, tot sententise." — Terence. 
" So many men, so many minds." 

SCENE FIRST. 

An Artisfs Studio, Harry Melville and VacciL 

Melville. Put yourself in my place, VacciL What 
would you do ? On the one hand, my Uncle 
Tompkins offers me a certainty, — a share in his 
business, resulting in a partnership to be followed by 
a fortune at his death, and threatens, if I persist in 
studying art, to disown me as his nephew, and never 
to leave me a shilling 

VacciL Close with his offer by all means, Mr. 
Harry. 

Mel Stay; hear both sides. I have really a love for 
art, and no taste whatever for commerce. I'm afraid 
I should make a very poor tradesman or merchant ; 
while I really feel as if I should succeed as an 
artist 

Vac. Stick to art by all means, Mr. Harry. 

Mel. Still, an offer of this kind is not to be rejected 
in a hurry ; art is uncertain. I have known many 
men of undoubted talent who could not live by it. 
Now suppose I overvalue my own powers, and 



300 



GRINS AND WRINKLES. 



after rejecting the certainty of affluence and respect- 
ability, find myself condemned to trudge through 
life an obscure artist 

Vac. Enter your Uncle Tompkins' counting-house 
by all means, Mr. Harry. 

Mel. But then to give up for ever, for a miserable 
surety, all my glorious dreams, my aspirations after 
fame, the ambitious hopes which I have nursed so long, 
which gained new life while gazing on the wonders 
of the Vatican and the ceiling of the Sistine ! To 
bid farewell for ever to the hope of being one day 
able to re-echo the glorious cry of Correggio, "AncK 
to sono pittore."* [Seizing hold of Vaccil in his enthu- 
siasm). Oh, Vaccil! I am determined to be a painter. 
I will succeed. I will make my Uncle Tompkins 
proud of me. I will make you proud of me. I will 
make all my friends proud of me. 

Vac. (catching his enthusiasm). Hurrah ! be a 
painter ; go to Italy ; come back successful ; make us 
all proud of you, Mr. Harry ! 

Mel What, Vaccil, have I inoculated you ? Well, 
return to my Uncle Tompkins ; tell him I thank him 
for his offer, but that in so momentous a question, 
involving my future happiness or misery, I cannot 
decide in so summary a manner. I have asked some 
friends to come and deliver their candid opinions 
on my artistic efforts, and on their decision will very 
much depend whether I can fulfil his wishes or not. 

* And I too am a painter. 



THE ARTIST AND HIS FRIENDS. 301 

Vac. Well, Mr. Harry, I'll take your message. 
But I know Mr. Tompkins; he's peremptory, and 
will stand no delay ; he expects a plain Yes or No. 



SCENE SECOND. 



In a dingy office in the City of London sit two 
elderly citizens, evidently tradesmen well-to-do in the 
world. Mr. Tompkins has amassed a fortune by 
sugar -baking: he is now thinking of retiring from 
business, and is in earnest confabulation with his 
friend Brown, respecting the contumacy of his 
nephew, whom Mr. Tompkins has set his heart upon 
succeeding him in the firm, but who unfortunately 
has evinced a taste for art — a condition of mind which 
Messrs. Tompkins and Brown associate with lunacy* 
Tompkins (loquitur). Am I not to be pitied, my 
dear friend Brown? My nephew, Harry Melville, 
whom I had intended to adopt as my successor in the 
business, to prefer beggary, disgrace, and ruin; to 
bring infamy upon the respectable name of Tomp- 
kins, by following the trade of a painter, a wretched 
dauber of canvas ! 

Brown. Friend Tompkins, I does pity you; but 
look-y'ere, it's all a'most your own fault. Why 
did you allow the young man to go to Italy, and 
them outlandish countries ? Did you ever know any 
good come from travelling? Don't it always ruin 
people ? Folks never travelled when we wos young. 
What's the use of seein' foring countries? that's 



302 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

what I says. There ain't none like England, I don't 
think. I always mistrusted the young man would 
turn out ill when you read me them letters wrote by 
him full of nonsense, about po'try and statutes, and 
Raphel and Michel h'angel, or whatever his name is, 
and Peter what-d'ye-call-him, the i?ye-talian, who 
made such a fuss about a girl called Laurar. # Why 
can't them foreigners have speakable names like us 
English? 'Owever, I never thought matters would 
get so bad that your nephew would refuse a good 
berth in your firm. 

Tomp. You shall hear what he says. Mr.Vaccil 

(Mr. Vaccil, who has been writing very hard at 
his desk in the back-ground, comes forward. 
He is a fidgety r , obsequious, little man, generally 
siding with the last speaker, and is imbued with 
the most profound reverence for the firm of 
Tompkins and Co.) 
Tomp. Mr. Vaccil, repeat the reply Mr. Melville 
made to my message. 

Vac. I communicated to Mr. Harry your wishes, 
sir, — viz., to accept a situation in your counting- 
house 

Tomp. Well, Mr. Vaccil, well — and he replied : 

Vac. He replied that, in a question involving his 
future happiness or misery, he could not decide in so 
summary a manner ; that he had asked some friends 
to call and deliver a candid opinion on his artistic 

* Mr. Brown doubtless meant Petrarch. 



THE ARTIST AND HIS FRIENDS. 303 

efforts ; and on their decision would, in a great 
measure, depend whether he could fulfil your wishes 
or not. 

Tomp. (turning to Brown). You hear this ; now 
what's your opinion ? 

Brown, (after wagging his head oracularly for 
some time, then varying the performance by tapping 
his brow significantly vnth his fore-finger). Oh, it's a 
clear case ; the young man's mad. 

Vac. (in a hesitating manner). If you please — if I 
might be allowed to give an opinion 

Tomp. Well, Mr. Yaccil, go on. 

Vac. Please, sir, I don't think Mr. Harry's mad ; I 
think he's a genius. 

Brown, (bursting into a horse-laugh). Well, and 
isn't genius madness, eh? — or next door to it? 

Tomp. You are right, Brown. (To VacciT). Do 
you pretend, Mr. Vaccil, to deny that genius is a 
species of madness ? Quick, sir ! 

Vac. Ye-es, sir, to be sure. Certainly, you're the 
head of the firm, and ought to know best. I should 
be very sorry to set up my opinion against yours. 

Tomp. No equivocation, Mr. Vaccil; answer di- 
rectly. 

Vac. Yes, sir, to be sure. Genius is madness, cer- 
tainly, if you say so. 

Tomp. And I do say so. I trust, Mr. Yaccil, you 
did not mean to insult me. 

Vac. (with a gesture of amazement). Me, sir — insult 
you, sir : the head of the firm of Tompkins and Co. ! 
How can you suppose it ? What have I said, I 



304 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

Tomp. Did you not say you thought my nephew, 
Harry Melville, my sister's son, a genius? A man 
with the Tompkins' blood in his veins, a genius! 
Such a thing was never heard of before. It ain't 
possible. Mr. Vaccil, you have been my clerk for 
thirty years; now answer me without prevarication. 
Did you ever hear of a Tompkins who was a genius ? 
Vac. {with naivete), Never, upon my word, sir. 

Tomp. I should think not. My family are remark- 
able for strong common sense, but no genius. Bless 
you, we don't want it. We wouldn't have it. It's an 
unprofitable commodity. My motto is, that every- 
thing beyond common sense is downright nonsense. 
Genius ain't happy nor contented itself, and don't 
make other people so. Genius don't marry and 
settle down comfortably and bring up a family, but 
scribbles and daubs, and goes tramping about the 
country to Chartist meetings, and all sorts of repub- 
lican places, getting people into mischief. Genius 
didn't make me worth fifty thousand pounds — eh, 
Brown? 

Brown, (thumping with his stick on the floor). No 
more it didn't. Them's my sentiments exact. 

Tomp. Look at me, Mr. Vaccil. Am I a genius ? 

Vac. No, sir. 

Tomp. Was my father a genius ? 

Vac. Not that I have ever heard, sir. 

Tomp. Or my mother? ; " 

Vac. No, sir. 

Tomp. Was my grandfather a- — — (stops abruptly). 

Vac. (dubiously). Really, sir, my memory don't 



THE ARTIST AND HIS FRIENDS. 30o 

serve me so far back. I never knew who your grand- 
father was. 

Tomp. It would be odd if you did, seeing I never 
knew myself; but I'll venture to say he was no 
genius. 

Brown, {thumping with his stick). I'll take my oath 
on it. Friend Tompkins, I always thought you knowed 
what o'clock it was ; your sentiments and mine agree 
to a T on this pint. The man what plants a potato, 
or makes a pair of shoes, is of more vally to the world 
than all the Shikspurs, Miltons, Raphels, or Michel 
what-d'ye-call-'ems in the world. Not that I despises 
book-larnin'. Books has their uses, I supposes, for 
them as likes 'em. I've a tolerable sight of books 
myself, as you knows, friend Tompkins ; ay, I should 
say more nor a 'undred in the glass-case in my 
drawin'-room, and regularly dusted twice a week. 
Mrs. Brown and my darter Emmar appears fond of 
readin', for they ain't satisfied w T ith my library, but 
subscribes to a circilatin' 'un besides. For that 
matter all's well ; if it don't do 'em no good, it keeps 
'em out of mischief, and at 'ome instead of goin' out 
shoppin' and spendin' money. For my part, I'm free 
to confess I never did care about readin'. When I 
wants to go to sleep, I takes a. book. 

Tomp. {regarding this Gallio of literature with fervent 
admiration). Ah, my dear friend, if you could only 
inoculate my wild, headstrong, romantic nephew with 
such- sentiments ! I have determined never to see or 



306 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

speak with him again if he perseveres in his rebellious 
opposition to my wishes. 

Brown. Make your mind easy ; I'm one of the friends 

he's asked .to come and give their opinion at his 

what's the outlandish name he has for his work-shop, 
where he daubs his pictures ? 

Vac. Studio, sir ; the French call it atelier. 
Brown. Study-o. Well, them foreigners has funny 
names for things ! As for the other word, shan't 
attempt that; never could get my tongue beyond 
Parlez-woas francy. Well, friend Tompkins, I'm 
goin' at oncet ; and if the young man has any sense 
left, I'll make him listen to reason ; I'll talk to him 
in such a way as he must feel it. I'll tell him the 
truth plain and plump — that he's a confounded fool. 
Besides, he must have some idear of takin' my advice, 
or why did he go and ask it? 

(So far from the latter supposition being correct, 
we should inform the reader that Mr. Brown had 
been invited merely out of complaisance, because 
he happened to be present when others were 
solicited to accept the office of critic, for Harry 
Melville had no very high opinion of Mr, Brown 
as a connoisseur in art.) 



SCENE THIRD. 

We now introduce the reader to scene third of our 
story, sketch, or drama, or compound of all three. — 



THE ARTIST AND HIS FRIENDS. 307 

An artist's studio, with pictures, busts, and all the 
befit ting paraphernalia; an easel and picture in the 
foreground, beside which stands Melville, with palette 
and brushes, in a musing attitude. 

None feel the injustice of the world more than 
young men possessed of genius as yet unacknow- 
ledged ; " unaccredited heroes," as Carlyle calls them. 
Go and tell the young brain, throbbing with the 
germ of some great original idea, which the stam- 
mering tongue, or the unpractised pen, or unfledged 
pencil cannot yet efficiently unfold, to leave writing, 
painting, reading, dreaming, musing, and settle down 
to all the obscure and ignoble drudgery of some 
hackneyed calling. Tell the eagle to forget to soar 
and gaze upon the sun, to leave the eyrie and asso- 
ciate with the mousing night-owl. Tell the swift 
antelope of his free will to abandon the plains, and 
share the yoke borne by the sluggish steer. A 
counting-house — faugh ! 

" Confine the monarch of the air 
To some dim cage : in fierce despair 
He beats his bars, and dies."* 

Such was the train of thought at present passing 
through the mind of Harry Melville. respectable 
matter-of-fact Tompkins, despiser of genius, how thy 
sublunary soul would have started back in affright 
couldst thou have taken a bird's-eye inspection of 
thy nephew's mind at this moment ! But Melville's 

* Poetical Eemains of Peter John Allan. 

x 2 



308 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

reverie is interrupted by the entrance of the servant, 
who announces and ushers in Messrs. Smith, Brown, 
Jones, and Robinson, and exit. 

Mel. {shaking hands with his visitors respectively.} 
Ah, gentlemen, this is kind of you. You are punc- 
tual. Now, you know our agreement. Here are 
my pictures, and you are to speak candidly your 
real opinion respecting my efforts. 

(Messrs. Smith, Jones, and Robinson severally 
assent, and begin scrutinizing the pictures. Mr. 
Brown, striking his stick upon the floor, says, in 
his usual gruff voice, " For my part, wotever others 
may say, I always speaks my mind. You'll find no 
soft-soap about me, young man ; I'm a plain John 
Bull, I am ; and scorns to flatter any man, I does*'' 
Having eased his mind by this speech, Mr. Brown 
proceeds to examine the pictures by flattening his 
nose against the canvas, after the most approved 
fashion of barbarians of his school, dehors the realms 
of art.) 

Mel. {feeling a little nervous). Ahem I pray, gentle- 
men, do not look quite so close, if you please, in 
justice to the pictures. As the great Tintoretto said, 
"I am a painter, not a dyer;" and as our own 
immortal Wilson observed, in allusion to a critic who 
was flattening his nose against the picture, " a smell of 
paint is very unhealthy." 

Brown. Humph ! That 'ere's a 'int for me, I sup- 
poses. Now look ye 'ere, young man ; if you asks 
my opinion 



THE ARTIST AND HIS FRIENDS. 309 

Smith, (interrupting). I think 



Jones, {interrupting). My opinion is- 



Rob. (interrupting). Why, if you ask me 

(Smith, Brown, Jones, and Robinson all speaking 

together.) Smith. They appear to me to have merit 

Brown. I don't see none Jones. Only have con- 
fidence in yourself Rob. Only mistrust your- 
self 

Mel. Pray, gentlemen, speak one at a time, if you 
would have me profit by your several opinions, Mr. 
Smith, will you have the kindness to begin ? 

Smith, (clearing his throat and coughing). Hem — 
hem — hem ! It's a — a ticklish thing, giving advice, but 
as I really — do consider myself — something of a judge 
of — pictures — indeed — I may say without flattery, 
you might have consulted a good many before you 
pitched upon one who understands them as well — 
Apropos, do you know Von Spiller, a young 
German artist ? No ! well, if you have not heard 
of him, you will ; a rising man, Von Spiller, depend 
upon it. I take some small credit to myself, now, for 
bringing that man into notice. Gave him an order 
to paint my grandmother. Fine old head with 
spectacles; just three spots of light in the picture, 
one on the cap, one on the forehead, and one on the 
nose — ail the rest as black as my hat — in short, 
a regular Rembrandt. Looked, if possible, more 
natural than life. For some years past, my grand- 
mother has had the habit of sitting in the chimney- 
corner, and saying nothing but " Hum, hum, hum/' 



310 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

Upon my word, sir, looking at her picture you expect 
to hear it say " Hum, hum, hum/' it's so like. Well, 
sir, would you believe it ? such is the envious spirit 
in human nature, the Committee of the Royal 
Academy actually refused that picture. Afraid of 
it, sir. The work of an unknown artist ; would have 
been the gem of the exhibition, and that wouldn't, 
of course, have suited the academicians. 

Mel. You don't say so ! 

Smith. I do, indeed ! Well, sir, they shall find 
Horace Walpole Smith is not to be insulted with im- 
punity. Sir Charles Eastlake won't forget in a hurry 
the letter \ wrote him on that occasion. He never 
answered it, of course not ! — how could he ? — it was 
unanswerable. Then again, did you see that article 
in the u Weekly Scarifier," on the National Gallery, 
relative to the purchase of the last Paul Veronese? 
Ha ! ha ! as much a Paul Veronese as I am. I rather 
think Sir Charles Eastlake felt that too. Now 
don't suppose I give myself out for the author — oh 
no ! If any one asks you who wrote it — it wasn't me. 

Mel. But you mean it w T as. 

*&mith. Oh no— though I get the credit of it. But 
to return to the subject of your pictures. Well, my 
opinion is — they have merit, and that you cannot fail 
to succeed — provided — you take my advice. Now if I 
were in your place, I'd go at once and place myself 
immediately under some fiist-rate artist, like Stanfield, 
or Roberts, or Landseer, for a year or so, until you 
learn their tricks of colour, manipulation, &c. The 



THE ARTIST AND HIS FRIENDS. 311 

premium is not over two, or certainly three hundred 
pounds per annum. 

Mel. Thank you, Smith. I am highly gratified 
with your approval of my humble efforts, though I 
can't quite agree with you about the Paul Veronese 

in the National. Now sir, {turning to Jones) 

{Brown interrupts Jones, who is about to speak). In 
your turn, my good sir. 

Jones. So far I can agree with Mr. Smith, as to say, 
persevere, Harry, persevere ; you've got it in you. 
In every other respect I differ entirely. If you'll 
take my advice, you w T on't fritter away your genius 
by submitting it to any rules whatever. Have 
confidence in yourself — that's the grand secret. Don't 
take any lessons from anybody but nature. Have 
nothing to do with the Royal Academy ; avoid the 
mannerisms of the schools; hate the old masters 
w r orse than Ruskin does. Let originality, genius., 
and nature., be your only guides ; and don't even stick 
too close to nature^ or you'll find she'll put you 
out, as she did Fuseli. Why, man, you want con- 
fidence in yourself ! Here's light and shade ! here's 
drawing ! here's breadth ! here's depth ! {pointing to 
pictures.) Sir Joshua might be proud of this colour; 
Wilkie might envy you this finish; and here's the 
delicacy of a Lawrence combined with the majesty 
of Vandyck. Now, if you begin to mistrust your- 
self, and go pottering about after the life and the 
antique, and raving about Raphael and Michael 
Angelo, and the old masters, and fall down and 
worship dirty pictures, why farewell at once to all 



312 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

your original powers. I'll tell you what you'll do, 
if you take my advice. Order a large canvas, say 
eighteen by twenty feet, and begin a historical picture 
at once. I'll give you a subject — what say you to 
this? " Disgust of Sir Charles Napier on opening 
his despatches and finding he is not permitted to'batter 
down Cronstadt." Make a capital companion picture 
to " Nelson meditating in his cabin on the eve of the 
Battle of Trafalgar." 

{Jones stops to take breath, and Robinson strikes 
in before Brown, wko is -preparing to interrupt, 
can speak.) 
Rob. Sir, I'm sorry to say, I disagree with you 
entirely as to the method of study which Mr. Melville 
will adopt, if he is wise, and takes my advice. ( To 
Melville). Persevere, Melville; but so far from 
having confidence in yourself, your only hope of 
success lies in mistrusting your own abilities. Genius, 
without a due spirit of diffidence and respect for old 
masters, is but a stumbling-block for young artists* 
If I had my way, not a picture in the National 
Gallery should have been cleaned. The very dirt is 
sacred in my eyes. Now, this is what you ought to 
do : — Make a careful study of all the chefs-d' ceeuvre 
of the old masters, before you attempt the simplest 
thing from nature, were it so much as a shoe-string. 
Then, before you have got into any vicious ways of 
looking at nature, you will learn how Claude, or 
Titian, or Guido, or Rembrandt, or Rubens, would 
have treated the subject. Then, with your mind thus 
tuned and strengthened, toned down and harmonized, 



THE ARTIST AND HIS FRIENDS. 313 

so to speak, to a proper appreciation of form and 
colour, begin drawing from the cast, then the antique, 
then the life, afterwards attempt portraiture, then 
landscape. Follow this plan minutely ; don't leap over 
any of the intermediate steps, and at last you will be 
qualified to undertake historical composition. Adopt 
this system, and I pledge myself to your success, 
provided, at every successive step, you utterly avoid 
the slightest degree of confidence in yourself* Have 
Michael Angelo and Raphael constantly in your 
eye 

Jones, (interrupting). Michael Angelo and Raphael ! 
ridiculous. I hope to see you, in a few years, Harry, 
far before Millais and the leader of the pre-Raphaelite 
school. 

Rob. Avoid the pre-Raphaelite mania, as you would 
the plague. Who ever saw such hands and feet as 
you see in the pre-Raphaelite pictures ? 

Brown, (who can no longer bottle up his impatience to 
speak). Hang me if I can make head or tail of this 
jargon ! Now, look ye 'ere, 'Arry Melville, I've 
knowed you from a boy, and me and your uncle is 
old friends, and you knows I wishes you well. I'm 
a plain blunt old feller; I never flatters nobody. 
What's the good of askin' a chap's advice, if you 
w r on't follor it ? However, that's your own affair. 
Perhaps you won't like what I'm going to say. 
Can't help that neither. What's the use of daubing 
canvas for a living, when your Uncle Tompkins offers 
you a snug berth in his firm, that any man in his 



314 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

senses would be glad to jump at? Now, jest you be 
a sensible feller, and shove all this here rubbish into 
the fire, and put art and all that nonsense out of 
your head. You ain't offended ? 

Mel. {striving to avoid appearing disconcerted). 
Offended — oh — hah— no, certainly not — oh, not in 
the least offended —on the contrary, much obliged to 
you for your — frankness — Mr. Brown — as I may say 
I am to all of you, gentlemen, for your advice 
respectively. I certainly could have wished your 
sentiments had been a little more unanimous, but I 
shall consider and weigh them 

Smith. Why, I'm sure mine don't require any 
deliberation whatever. 

Jones. As for mine, they are as clear as noon-day. 

Bob. Is it possible that the truth of my observations 
don't strike you at once ? 

Brown. What, you won't give up art then ? Now, 
what is the use of a feller askin' a feller's, advice and 
then not follorin' it? 

Mel. But really, gentlemen, recollect your counsels 
are so conflicting that it is impossible to please you 
all. I am aware that there is truth and sense in each, 
and I will deliberate 

Smith, (eagerly). But what deliberation does my 
advice require ? Can anything be more rational than 
for a young artist to place himself as a pupil with 
Stanfield, Roberts, or Landseer 

Bob. Pshaw ! what can the moderns teach him ? (To 
Melville). It's the old masters who will conduct you 



THE ARTIST AND HIS FRIENDS. 315 

to fame and fortune, provided always you avoid self- 
confidence. 

Jones, {eagerly). And I say, sir, that the only road to 
success is to trust solely to your own innate abilities. 
The old masters, forsooth ! a parcel of old missuses. 

Brown. And I say they 're all a-deludm' of you but 
me. If you wants to get on in life, give up paintin', 
and take to buziness. 

(Smith, Jones, Robinson, and Brown grow indig- 
nant at their advice not being taken ; and 
all speak together, endeavouring to convince 
Melville.) 

Mel. {turning from one to the other in confusion). 
But, gentlemen, how can I please you all ? 

Smith. Oh, very well ; I wish you joy of your inde- 
cision. Good morning. [Exit.) 

Rob. Though I regret to see that my advice is 
not appreciated, I must repeat, once for all, Mistrust 
yourself as an artist, or you are undone. Adieu. 
(Exit.) 

Jones. Have confidence in yourself alone — or, as an 
artist, you are lost. Farewell. (Exit.) 

Brown, (coming close to Melville and speaking slowly, 
with the self-possession of one delivering an oracle). 
Young man, give up art altogether, or you are a 
ruined man. 

Mel. Really, sir, if you could enter into my feelings 
of love for art, you would see the difficulty of com- 
plying suddenly w T ith your request. 

Brown, (in the tone of one whose feelings have been 



316 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

severely injured.) Oh! very well, young man; take 
your own way. But 1 must say I don't see no 
use of a feller first askin' a feller's advice, and then 
goin' and takin' his own way. Morning young 
man. [Exit Brown.) 

Mel. (solus). So — upon my word, I'm glad it's all 
over. Who would not consult one's friends ? — A set 
of conceited prigs ; each speaking as if his " ipse 
dixit " was the only law in the world, and not giving 
me credit for a grain of common sense, myself. 
Why the deuce should a man, because he asks advice, 
be supposed to renounce all right of private judg- 
ment? Ha, ha I where am I to get three hundred 
pounds, for a premium, to pay Roberts or Landseer. 
My uncle stops my allowance, if I pursue painting. 
I'm very certain Smith wouldn't lend it to me, 
though he got into a huff because I wouldn't take 
his advice; and then Jones, with his "confidence in 
myself; " and Robinson telling me directly the reverse, 
to mistrust myself and copy everything. Why, to 
follow his plan, I should be an old man long before 
I got to portrait-painting. Still there was a grain 
of common sense in everything those three said ; for 
they all agreed on one point, that / had talent ! and 
advised me to persevere ; but as to that abominable 
Brown, with his infernal impudence, ordering me to 
give up art forsooth, (walks about in a rage,) and to 
burn my brushes ! — To be bearded by a fellow like 
that, who doesn't know the top from the bottom of 
a picture, and can't speak six words of English cor- 



THE ARTIST AND HIS FRIENDS. 317 

rectly ! By Jove, I'm sorry I let him off without 
giving him a piece of my mind 

(Re-enter Brown. Melville, turning suddenly, per- 
ceives him.) 

Mel. Halloo, Brown I here you are again. I was 
just wishing to see you. 

Brown. I'm main glad to hear it, young man. I 
'opes it's to tell me that you've thought better of the 
matter, and are a-goin' to take my advice; for, as 
I says afore, I've a regard for you, and I told your 
uncle that I'd make you listen to reason ; for, as I 
says, I didn't believe you could be so far deranged 
as to prefer art to a lucrative business and the pros- 
pect of a fortin after his death. And, as I'm three 
times your age, it stands to reason I have three times 
your judgment. And don't you go for to think 
that I don't know nothink about pieturs. Bless 
you, I've an infallible rule for judgin' of pieturs. 
I could tell you, blindfold, if a pictur's worth 
anythink. 

Mel "Blindfold!" That's a new method. You 
must be very clever if you can do that. Pray how 
do you accomplish it ? 

Brown. Why, I passes my 'and over the canvas 

Mel. Well, and how does that assist you ? 

Brown. Don't you see that's to tell whether the 
pictur's smooth or not ? 

Mel. And if it is smooth ? 

Brown. Why then it's a good pictur. If it's rough, 
I wouldn't give that for it. (Sneips his fingers.) 



318 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

Mel. (bursting into a fit of laughter). Shades of 
Turner and Claude ! What a critic ! 

Brotvn. Ay, you may laugh, young man. Them 
picturs of yourn ain't smooth. And what's the mean- 
ing of that great nob of white paint, on the forehead, 
in that 'ere pictur? 

Mel. That's a high light. 

Brown. A 'igh light, you calls it ! Now, to my 
mind, it's nothin' more nor a great splash of wite paint. 
(Going to put his hand on the picture.) 

Mel. [stopping him). Excuse me, Mr. Brown, but 
we differ as to the proper mode of testing pictures. 

Brown. Well, look ye 'ere, young man ; I can't 
stand foolin' 'ere all day. Will you take a friend's 
advice now that we've got rid of them nincompoops, 
puffin you up with conceit? (Laying his hand familiarly 
on Melville's shoulder.) Just let me go back to your 
Uncle Tompkins and tell him you've acted like a 
rational being ; and, to oblige me, will you, afore I 
go, make a bonfire of all this trumpery ? (Pointing to 
the pictures.) 

Mel. (slowly, and retaining his temper). If I under- 
stand aright, you wish me to burn my brushes and 
pictures. 

Brown. Yes, that's what I means — you'll do it ! 
That's right ; I told your uncle I'd make you 'ear 
reason — 

Mel. Well then, here's my answer. (In a fury, 
shouting into Brown's ear.) I tell you No, no, no, 
no — a thousand times no. 



THE ARTIST AND HIS FRIENDS. 319 

Brown, {starting back). I ain't deaf, young man. 
(Recovering himself after a pause.) Well, this do 
beat all ever I see'd! Now, what is the use of a 
feller asking another feller's advice, and then not 
follorin'it? I came here, as a friend, to give you 
good advice, and to spare your feelin's ; but I'm 
blowed if you're not the most ongrateful person as 
ever I met. " I've a great mind to say I'll never do 
a good action agin." For, I say agin, what is the 
use of a feller askin' another feller's advice, and then 
doin' directly the contrary ? 

Mel. {laughing). Ha, ha, ha ! I asked your advice, 
Brown ; but I didn't pledge myself to follow it. 
Haven't I got common sense, as well as you, to guide 
me? Now then, Brow T n, do go away. You're a 
good fellow, and mean well ; but you'll put me in a 
passion. You really don't understand pictures. 

Brown, {in a tone of mingled pity and disgust). I'm 
a goin' — I can't a- bear ingratitude. {Turning round 
suddenly.) But first let me ask you one question. 

Mel Well, what is it? 

Brown, {speaking very slowly and distinctly). Why 
did you ask me to give you my advice, and then go 
and do directly the contrary ? 

Mel. Pshaw ! you asked me that question a dozen 
times before. Now, do go away, Brown. 

Brown. Hah! well, answer it if you can; that's 
what I says. What the dickens does a feller mean 
by askin' another feller's advice, and then goin' and 
doin' directly the contrary ? 



320 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

Mel. Brown, Brown, you'd vex the patience of a 
saint. 

Brown, (going). Well, of all the ridic'lus things I 
ever seed — to ask a feller's advice and then not to* 
follor it, after all! (Exit, repeating the above.) 



Mr. Brown returned to Mr. Tompkins, and con- 
veyed to him the sad tidings, that his nephew was 
obdurately bent upon disgracing the Tompkins 
family, by becoming a professional artist. Mr. 
Harry Melville, meanwhile, having discovered by 
experience the truth of the adage that it is im- 
possible to please all parties, and that it would be a 
difficult matter to reconcile the advice of his friends, 
determined to persevere in art, with a modest con- 
fidence in his own abilities; to take nature as his 
principal guide and instructress, with a proper 
respect and deference for her best interpreters, 
both among the ancients and moderns. By this 
means he has achieved success, and is now a rising 
artist. 

His friends, Smith, Jones, and Kobinson, quote 
him as an example of their own favourite theories 
respectively, though, in fact, he has only taken what 
was good from each. With his uncle, however, he 
was never reconciled — who died recently, and cut 
him off with a shilling. Mr. Tompkins's death was, 
no doubt, accelerated by the lamentable conviction, 



THE ARTIST AND HIS FRIENDS. 321 

which at length forced itself upon him, that one of 
the Tompkins family was really, after all, a genius ! 
As for Mr. Brown, he is still heard occasionally to 
wonder "how a feller can ask another feller's 
advice, and then go and do directly the contrary." 



KATE KILMAN. 



"There is nothing in the world so agreeable as flirtingv 
and we look upon a downright earnest flirt as a creation of 
the first order." — Albert Smith's Comic Tales and Sketches. 

Our friend, Baphael Pose, Artist, finding business 
dull in London, had gone down to spend the summer 
with his mother and sister, a 'at a seaport town, which 
we shall designate P- — . As he had solemnly- 
promised to write us, we began to suspect, after a 
mysterious silence of two months, that Mr. Pose 
had fallen in love, a habit to which he is very much 
addicted. At length, arrived the following letter. 
The reader shall judge whether our prognostications 
were fulfilled or not. We take the liberty of throw- 
ing in a few of our own commentaries, which escaped 
us as we read : — - 

" My dear — — — , 



"My experience has taught me, that it takes all 
sorts of young ladies to make up a world. Just 
as there must be les yeux noirs et les yeux bleus, 
so must there be the same diversity of character, 
well expressed by Madame Blaz de Bury, by e les 
roles blonds et les roles brum, 9 viz., blue -eyed 
and black-eyed characters. Of course, I and you 
prefer (as all right-thinking men must) your model 
woman, so frequently encountered in novels, icritten 
by female authors! who never loves but once, and 



KATE K1LMAN. 323 

then always the right man, possessed of the highest 
moral worth, and a straight nose, &c, &c. ; and who 
would rather die than disclose her love then, until 
the gentleman comes to the point first ; and who, if 
she never meets with this individual, or if their 
destinies keep them asunder, embraces a life of single 
blessedness without a sigh of disappointment, and 
distributes blankets blamelessly to the end of her 
days. But, of two most distinct species of that 
delightful genus known as young ladies, to be found 
in the salons, re-unions, pic-nics, &c, &c, of this 
every-day world — the over-prudish, and the over- 
fond of flirting — -commend me to the latter. Yes, 
give me frankness before hypocrisy. I feel safer 
with one of those honest natures who throws down 
the gauntlet of conquest at once, tells us almost in 
so many words, * Take care of your heart, 5 and 
opens the battery of her charms and accomplish- 
ments on a bachelor with promptitude and energy, 
— than with the insidious mincing demoiselle, who 
affects utter innocence and unconsciousness of 
motives, while she is carefully, though secretly, 
weaving her meshes and her spells around you. 
The one is the fair pitched battle, in which, if you 
do fall, you fall with honor. The other is the deadly 
ambush, where you are s taken in and done for' 
before you suspect your danger. Yes ! give me the 
girl who is quite independent of a mamma to angle 
for her ; who goes in for flirting (to use a quaint 
but significant phrase here) ' on her own hook ; ' who 

y 2 



324 GRINS AND WRINKLES* 

demurs to the passive and conventional rdfe, affected 
by other young ladies, of the Maehiavel, and bread- 
and-butter school ; who has ' set her hand upon a 
cast, and will stand the hazard of the die ; ' who 
plays 6 a bold stroke for a husband/ and will either 
conquer or be conquered* 

" Such a paragon, such a Napoleon of flirtation, I 
am about to introduce to you — but to proceed me- 
thodically. I came to P— — — * indulging in a san- 
guine expectation of reaping a harvest of orders for 
portraits, conversation-pieces,, landscapes, &c. I 
did not expect to be employed on altar-pieces or 
historical subjects ; for, as you know, the world is 
slow to discover genius, and I am still young and 
modest {ahem!). I exhibited my pictures ; I sat in 
my studio, day after day — yet sitters came not. 
Once a nursery-maid, with children, came in ; but 
I found her ideas did not soar beyond a dag'ratype. 
At another time a fiend in human shape! entered* 

priced my portraits, promised to sit, and never 

returned. Where do such people expect to go to ? 
Ought there not to be actions for breach of 
promise of sitting, as well as of marriage ? 

" I continued to sit in my solitary studio, feeling 
like 6 Mariana in the lonely moated grange,' 
* aw T eary and aweary,' and almost determining to 
keep raising my prices by degrees, like the old lady 
who offered the Sybilline books for sale, and so 
revenge myself on future sitters ; when one day I 
was rescued from this 'parlous ■ state, by my sister 



KATE KILMAN. 325 

running into the room and informing me, that Miss 
Catharine and Miss Jane Kilman were up stairs — 
6 two very pretty girls, and ever so many more at 
home,' adding what my modesty would fain conceal — 
( Why write it then, coxcomb?) — ' Of course, the visit is 
professedly for us ; but I rather think ' (with a very 
knowing* look) c they will be a little dissappointed if 
they do not see you.' So it came to pass, that 
I went up stairs, having previously spent a few 
minutes in my dressing-room, merely, as the ladies 
say, 'to see if my hair was all right/ and was soon 

oblivious of the bad taste of the people in P 

in not patronizing me, in an animated chat with Miss 
Kate Kilman. 

u At the risk of being called, 6 conceited jacka- 
napes/ 'vain coxcomb,' intolerable puppy/ &c, 
&c, &c, I proceed to ask ingenuously the following 
questions: — What did Kate Kilman see in me, to 
make her fall in love with me at first sight, or at 
least, to shower upon me marks of attention, which a 
blind man must have appreciated ? Was it my conver- 
sation — my figure — my face — my moustache — my 
address — my metropolitan air — my ' tout ensemble,' or 
that indescribable 'je ne sgais quoi? which all human 
beings (male or female) fancy they possess, which 
renders our own individuality so agreeable to us ? — 
But I must keep clear of metaphysics — my subject is 
love, or rather flirtation. Why did Kate Kilman 
address her whole conversation to me ? Why did she 
make the call virtually a tete-a-tete, by looking at 



326 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

me ; talking at me ; smiling at me alone ; never allow- 
ing me to address her sister if she could possibly help 
it ? Like Brutus, ' I pause for a reply. 5 I can fancy 
your unjust illiberal sneers at this moment, and repel 
them with scorn. I gave her no encouragement — don't 
think it. I tell you she began it. (Very likely!) 
Was it for me to meet such marked attention with 
cold common-place — such honeyed words with gruff 
replies — such sweet smiles with scowling glances ? 
Preposterous ! 

ee Of course we returned the Kilmans' call at an early 
day. ( Why of course at an early day ?) The first im- 
pression on my mind was, that the Misses Kilman 
would never leave off coming into the room. ' The 
cry is still, They come/ Clara, the eldest ; then Kate ; 
then Jane ; then Maria ; then Agnes ; then Fanny : 
half a dozen of them ; their ages varying from four- 
and-twenty down to thirteen. I then made the dis- 
covery that Kate was not the handsomest : no 
disparagement to her beauty, however, for a finer 
family of girls than the Kilmans 5 1 never beheld. Now 
for a brief description of Kate, for hers is not the style 
of beauty which can be made to look well upon paper. 
You must see her and converse with her to have any 
idea of her. She is the tallest, with a well-developed 
figure, perhaps a thought too plump, and a colour 
in her cheeks, perhaps a trifle too rich. She has 
hazel eyes, and wears her dark brown hair in most 
becoming ringlets ; altogether she has a bold, impe- 
rious, queen-like look, softened through, by her frank 



KATE KILMAN. 327 

manner and arch smile, which, to such a connoisseur 
in beauty as I am, was most captivating. In ten 
seconds, I had constructed a nice little castle in the 
air, and settled it, that if Miss Kate possessed mental 
accomplishments to match her beauty, I had better 
look sharp after my heart. Miss Jane Kilman had 
a more graceful figure ; her face was more classical ; 
her tout ensemble had a grace, dignity, un spirituel, 
which Kate wanted ; in short, she was un peu plus 
distinguee than her sister. Moreover, Clara, the eldest, 
would have been most dangerous to have met alone, 
without the distraction afforded by the other sisters* 
attractions. They presented the converse of the 
bundle of sticks — powerful when single, comparatively 
weak, united. 

u I do love a cordial reception. It gives a zest even 
to that generally most abominable of ceremonies — a 
morning calL Somehow, before I had been five 
minutes in the Kilmans* drawing-room, I felt quite as 
much at home (an old failing of mine, as you know) 
(True!) as if I had known them for years ; and when 
Jane sat down to the piano satis ceremonie, and sang 
most sweetly and con abbandano — 

' Home again. Home again 
From a foreign shore ; 
And, oh, it fills my soul with joy 
To greet my friends once more.' 

I somehow began to grow oblivious of certain fair 
faces in London, which had hitherto haunted me. 



328 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

" * That is our musical-box,' said Kate, pointing to 
one corner. ' Isn't it a large one ? It used to play- 
such nice tunes for dancing to ; quite loud, you know, 
and delightful, I assure you — only just in the middle 
of a certain waltz, it always stopped and began a 
psalm, which was so disagreeable. But it's out of order 
now — look ! if you stoop down you can see the 
works.' 

" I felt necessitated to go down on my knees, in a 
dark corner, beside Miss Kate, and look at something 
or other, of what, I have not the slightest recollection^ 
seeing that Kate's curls were in close proximity to 
my cheek, though I was prevented from improving 
the opportunity of doing a bit of flirtation with my 
fair neighbour, by my mother displaying a lively, and; 
as I thought* an: ill-timed curiosity to inspect " the 
works" likewise. 

" ' Would we not stay and have a bit of a walk, as 
the afternoon was so fine, and come back to a cup of 
tea, and some music, in the evening ? Of course / 
had nothing to say in the matter, but the invitation 
was accepted. When I returned from that walk (it 
was along the sea-shore), I was strongly inclined to 
be a believer in metempsychosis or transmigration of 
souls, and that I and Kate Kilman had been ac- 
quainted during some previous state of existence, so 
rapid had been the growth of our friendship. While 
the walk lasted, we two ^Kate and myself) were, to 
use a sporting phrase* nowhere, — distanced, quite out 
of sight of the others. I have flirted before ( We should 



KATE KILMAN. 329 

think so '!) ; and it is my candid and settled conviction, 
that the individual who could be at a loss to entertain 
Miss Kate Kilman, during a tete-a-tete, must indeed 
be a novice in that noble art, and, to use the classical 
and significant language of the ladies, no better 
than ' a stick.' 

" We have already said that we prefer a frank girl, 
who likes securing her own fish (man ?), to a prudish 
one, who stands on the bank watching her mamma's 
efforts to hook him. It follows as a corollary to this 
axiom, that of the two extremes we prefer the girl 
who can and will talk, to the girl who either can't or 
won't. I desire to know why we men should always 
be in the active, and the ladies in the passive mood, 
in the rendering of petits soins. Why should not 
the tables be turned occasionally ? Why should not 
we listen to whispered compliments and confessions 
of attachment, and murmurs of eternal, never-dying 
affection, and — blush — if we can — and say, i Oh ! — I 
never — really — pray, don't — oh, I know it's all non- 
sense you're talking — and you don't mean a word 
you say — but — what a teaze you are ! Well, then — 
yes — you may, if you like — ask — my — mamma*' 
The veteran coxcomb has surely earned himself such a 
privilege now and then, Such were my thoughts as 
Kate Kilman rattled on, saving me all trouble of 
talking to her, beyond an occasional 6 Yes' and a 6 No/ 
and a bow, or a smile, or a compliment, which I endea- 
voured to put in like sugar-plums, generally in their 
proper places, and which she received as a matter of 



330 GUINS AND WRINKLES, 

right, but acknowledged with an arch look of 
gratitude, for all that. 

" We sat down to tea in the old-fashioned style. 
Papa Kilinan at the foot, Mamma Kilman at the head, 
and the pretty daughters in two rows on each side 
of the table. By the way, I quite forgot to mention 
that there's a son. (It's quite easy to see that you are 
smitten.) I was so engaged in a philosophical reverie 
on the pride and gratification which the parental 
Kilmans must feel in their olive branches, that I did 
not at first observe that I had Jane sitting next me. 
No sooner, however, had I begun to say something 
gallant to my fair neighbour, than Kate, who had 
been sitting vis-a-vis, with her eagle eye fixed on me, 
with a promptitude truly Napoleonic, left her seat, 
came round, and made s my pretty Jane,' resign in 
her favour. I was quite amused with the imperious- 
ness of the one, and the obedience of the other; 
and here I may remark that Kate seemed to be the 
presiding genius of the w T hole house. It was she 
that issued edicts, wrote notes of invitation, and 
settled all disputed questions. In short, it may he 
said that in every undertaking, she was 'dux fcemina 
facti' 

" After tea, Miss Kate pursued the same system of 
tactics. It formed no part of her plan to let me 
alone, and thus lose the advantage of any impression 
already made. She engrossed me entirely, looking 
round at her sisters with an air which said plainly, 
c Let me see any of you dare to interfere with my 



KATE KILMAN. 331 

property.' They seemed tacitly to acquiesce in this 
arrangement, exchanging significant glances occa- 
sionally, but by no overt act rebelling against the 
usurpation of my lovely tyrant. Miss Jane sat 
apart in dignified reserve, as much as to say, ' Here 
I am, whenever you have the good taste to break 
through the meshes which that artful Kate is weav- 
ing round you, and you will tire of her sooner if I 
make no attempt to come to the rescue.' 

"But she little knew Kate's resources, if she fancied 
that she intended to yield me up that evening. 
When that young lady was tired of talking, she 
began diligently looking up love-passages in Byron 
and Moore, and marking them for me to read. Some 
of her younger sisters displayed a good deal of 
curiosity to consult these passages likewise, but 
were dexterously foiled by Kate. And when Miss 
Jane, by her skill on the piano, brought a change 
over the spirit of our dream, by setting us all 
dancing, Kate made the discovery that I w r as a 
delightful partner, and that I could dance the polka 
better with her than with any of her sisters. She 
permitted me as a favour to take a turn with some of 
them occasionally, but ruthlessly put them down, and 
reclaimed me at her sovereign will and pleasure. 

a On our way home, my mother and sister both 
accused Kate of being too fond of flirting. My 
love of justice alone (Oh!) compelled me to take 
her part. 

* ' Don't you see,' said I, ' that Kate prefers the 



332 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

direct to the indirect system of flirtation. She 
knows the value of time, and thinks it better to 
crowd into one evening what would take six weeks 
by a slower process. Her system is in accordance 
with her own decision and energy of character; 
besides, she feels that she can derive little or no 
assistance from her mother, who is deficient in the 
tact requisite to bring to book, young gentlemen who 
are backward in coming forward. Accordingly, 
she likes to do her own love-making. All that you 
can say against her is, that she is going more 
honestly, openly, and frankly to w r ork, than nineteen 
girls out of twenty,' &c, &c, &c. I grew very 
eloquent; but I need not rehearse to you all the 
arguments I used — you know how prejudiced women 
are against their own sex. Pope says — 

* The proper study of mankind is man.' 

As human nature comprehends the female as well 
as the male sex, I thought I should profit myself 
and facilitate my progress in such a delightful study 5 
by restricting my lucubrations as far as possible to 
one individual example — Kate Kilman. To this 
love of knowledge I attribute the fact, that I was 
continually accepting invitations to the Kilmans', 
and when not actually in the house, constantly 
meeting Kate by chance — sometimes in the streets, 
when she was out shopping, sometimes in the most 
remote, romantic spots, on the sea-beach, or on the 
cliffs, where we used to pretend to sketch marine 



KATE KILMAN. 333 

views together (for, truth to tell) there was very 
little sketching beyond Kate's own likeness, which I 
was taking in a variety of attitudes ; and sometimes 
by the old fort, or on that extended table-land, 
which I loved to call the prairie, but which the 
inhabitants of P prosaically named "the com- 
mon." So earnest, indeed, was the bent of my 
mind towards knowledge, that even in church I 
found my gaze wandering towards the neighbouring 
pew in which Kate sat, doubtless too deeply 
abstracted by her religious devotions to be aware 
that she held her prayer - book upside down, and 
open generally at the Psalms throughout the whole 
of the service, and that she smiled quite uncoil* 
sciously while looking in my direction, giving 
occasion to that malicious Miss Hornet to say we 
were coquetting even in church. 

Ki Now, my dear fellow, not to make a longer story 
than is necessary, I have told you exactly my position 
w r ith regard to Kate. What do you advise me to 
do ? I may have painted her somewhat in a forward 
light, but she is certainly a fine frank girl. Now, 
as Miss Kilman made all the overtures to me 3 1 think 
I have a perfect right to extricate myself from the 
dilemma as abruptly as I please. Am I to suppose 
the girl loves me, and overlook her provincial educa- 
tion and other peculiarities, which I have made 
apparent in this slight sketch of her character, in 
consideration of this evidence of her good taste? 
(Insufferable puppy !) Are you inclined to believe 



834 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

that the society of a man of refined tastes and liberal 
education — that travel, and an enlarged sphere of 
society, would so far rectify what is amiss as to make 
her a good wife? (We have no patience with such 
conceit.) Or do you think I am warranted under 
the circumstances in treating the affair as an every- 
day flirtation, and taking an affecting or nonchalant 
farewell of the lady, according to circumstances ? 
In order to assist you in coming to a conclusion, I 
ought, perhaps, to mention that Kate is the prime 
favourite of a rich old maiden aunt, and has 
( expectations ' ( Cold-blooded schemer" ) 

My friend's letter ended rather abruptly here ; but 
there was a hurried postscript, written in an almost 
unintelligible scrawl, and dated a fortnight later, 
which ran as follows : — 

" I send you the above merely for your amusement ; 
I have no occasion now for your advice. That arrant 
and heartless flirt, Kate, has herself cleared up all 
my scruples. She is now coquetting desperately w T ith 
a naval lieutenant. I never thought seriously of the 
girl, who always seemed too bold and forward for my 
taste. If I had, I should consider that I have had 
a very lucky escape ; for who could be happy with 
such a giddy, capricious, inconstant — woman ? The 
maiden aunt is just like her in this respect, very 
variable in her likings and dislikings, and it is by no 
means certain that Kate will be an heiress after all." 
(Sour grapes, Master Raphael — sour grapes!) 



335 
MRS. RAPHAEL POSE, 

A SEQUEL TO KATE KILMAN. 



"Hail, wedded love." — Miltox, 

Two years had elapsed without our hearing or seeing 
anything of Mr. Raphael Pose. We had written him 
two letters : the first he never answered ; and the 
second, written a long time (six months we think) 
afterwards, was returned through the dead * letter 

office. He had then left P — — ; but where he 

might be we had not the most remote idea. We 
knew him to be just the sort of roving character who 
would start off to America or Australia on the spur 
of the moment, and we did not doubt that, before 
very long, he would either turn up or write to us. 

One day, as we were hurrying along Cheapside, 
we could not resist the temptation to stop and gaze 
at a handsome woman who had just entered Reeves's, 
the artists' colourmen. She w r as tall, with a stately 
carriage, a flashing eye, and a bright complexion. We 
stood for a moment at the door of the shop, looking 
at her as she made some purchases ; but all at once 
we recollected that we were tied to time, and were 
just turning away with a sigh, when, looking one way 
and going another, we rati plump against somebody. 
We turned to apologise ; but before we could get 



336 &RINS AND WRINKLES. 

out a word, we felt our hand grasped, and heard our 
name pronounced by a familiar voice. It was our 
long-lost friend, Raphael Pose. 

" In the name of all that's wonderful, where have 
you been these two years, and why have I heard 
nothing of you, Raphael?" 

" That's rather a long story," said Raphael ; " but 
if you'll come and dine with me to-day, I'll enlighten 
you." 

" Willingly ; excuse my hurry at present. I've a 
bill to take up in Lombard Street. A quiet tete-a- 
tete, I suppose, No company but ourselves — the old 
style of thing — what hour?" 

" Exactly," said Raphael, with a twinkle of his 
bright eye ; " four o'clock sharp ; we'll have a long 
evening; here's the address." 

He put his card into our hand. We thrust it into 
our pocket without looking at it. We shook hands 
with him again and. hurried away to keep our appoint- 
ment. When we came to look at the card, we found 
the address not, as we suspected^ in the neighbourhood 
of Newman or Berners Street, but Rose Cottage, 
Clapham. 

Punctually at four P.M., we found ourself beating 
a tattoo on the door of a snug little villa. The knock 
was answered, neither by a supercilious footman, nor 
a lazy page, but by what is in our opinion infinitely 
preferable — a comely and tidy housemaid, smartly 
without being over-dressed, who ushered us into the 
drawing-room, saying her master would be with 



MRS. RAPHAEL POSE. 337 

us directly. Everything both with within and 
without the cottage spoke of comfort, without any 
laboured attempt at luxury. We were puzzling our 
brains to account for Raphael living in this style ; 
for he was evidently sole tenant of the house, and 
could only account for it in two ways : either that 
his mother and sister were living with him, and that 
he intended to give us a pleasant surprise by 
introducing us to them; or that he meant soon to 
alter his bachelor condition. 

On the whole, we thought the room elegantly fitted 
up for a bachelor. There were two sofas, and three 
lounging chairs, and a piano, "Ho! Master Raphael," 
said we to ourself, " either your mother and sister are 
here, or else you are going to turn Benedict." Just 
at this moment Raphael himself entered ; and as soon 
as we had shaken hands, we began at once. " Have 
you taken to play the piano lately, Raphael?" "No." 
"Your mother or your sister is here?" "Neither." 
" Then you expect one or other of them ?" " No ; " 
his sister was married, and her mother residing with 
her at Norfolk. 

"Why, then, Master Raphael, I have you: you 
are going to be married." He blushed and laughed. 
"Now don't deny it — that piano tells a tale." Never- 
theless Raphael persisted that nothing was farther 
from his intention than getting married. Strange, 
how some people will deny these things to the last 
moment. Well, perhaps he'll get more communi- 
cative over a bottle of wine. 

z 



338 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

We were still rallying our friend when the door 
opened, and a lady entered — and— could we believe 
our eyes? — the same, the very same lady whom we had 
stopped to gaze at and admire in Cheapsicle. "My 
wife H ! " said Raphael, and he laughed heartily as 
he stood coolly enjoying our look of amazement. 
Just then dinner was announced, and we had handed 
Mrs. Raphael Pose down stairs, and were fairly seated 
at table before we had recovered from our surprise. 
"I thought I should astonish you/' said Raphael, 
answering our looks of wonder ; u I had it on the tip 
of my tongue to tell you I was married, when you 
spoke about a bachelor dinner, and so I thought I'd 
keep the secret a little longer. It's natural enough, 
you know," he added, with an arch smile at his wife, 
"when we've lost our freedom that we should hesi- 
tate to avow it all at once." 

A franker, more agreable hostess than Mrs. Pose 
we never met ; she did the honours of her husband's 
table with perfect grace, and showed herself un- 
affectedly glad to entertain one of his oldest and 
most confidential friends. This put us quite at our 
ease, w T hile, under other circumstances, we might have 
felt somewhat awkwardly situated, on finding ourself 
in for a diner en famille, where we expected only a 
tete-a-tete. We chatted and laughed away about a 
number of things, until the time came for us to open 
the cloor for Mrs. Pose. She stopped and gave her 
husband a kiss as she passed, which made us feel 
inclined to break the tenth commandment, and envy 



MRS. RAPHAEL POSE. 339 

Master Raphael a little, and she said as she went out, 
€t Pray, gentlemen, don't hurry from your wine. I 
know you must have a great many confidences to 
relate to each other, after your long parting, and I've 
a batch of delightful novels which will enable me to 
kill the time till you are ready for tea." 

" And now, my dear fellow," said we, when we had 
drawn our chairs closer together, and emptied a glass 
to the health of the fair lady who had just quitted 
us, "I am dying with curiosity to know who your 
wife is ; how you fell in love w T ith her, &c., &c. ; for 
remember, I have heard nothing of you since you 

wrote me two years ago, from P — , that amusing 

letter, all about that flirt, Miss Kilman. It's very 
evident you didn't allow that affair to trouble you 
long, and yet it must have affected you at the time, 
if, as I suspect, that was the cause of your leaving 
P ." 

Raphael gave us a quizzical look, and then burst 
into a fit of laughter. For a moment we were puz- 
zled, and then a sudden light flashed upon us. 

" Dear me — I didn't mean — if I've said anything 
through ignorance " 

" Stay, my dear fellow," said Raphael, "one question. 
Don't you think, from what you have seen of Mrs. 
Pose, that I ought to be very happy with such a wife?" 

" Indeed I do, from the bottom of my heart." 

" Then," replied Raphael, " Mrs. Pose was Miss 
Kate Kilman; and now it is / should ask your 

z2 



340 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

pardon, for keeping you in the dark so long. How- 
ever, here's to make amends, ' Open confession is 
good for the soul.' Fill your glass, and you shall 
hear how I came to change my mind so thoroughly 
about that young lady, concerning whom the opinion 
expressed in the postscript of my letter to you was, 
as I well recollect, far from satisfactory. 

"I soon found," continued Raphael, "that the 
Misses Kilman did not cultivate the garrison much. 
On the naval officers they founded all their hopes. 
To dazzle, charm, and captivate in that quarter, they 
reserved the artillery of their eyes, and generally all 
their energies. It appeared, however, that in the 
absence of H.M.S. Europa, they one and all (and 
especially Miss Kate) had no objection to keep them- 
selves in practice, by endeavouring to destroy the 
peace of mind of a stray bachelor, like myself. I 
could not imagine, at first, why there were so many 
speculations as to the exact time at which the Europa 
would return — why there was so much talk about 
this particular vessel, and why there were so many 
walking parties formed down to c the Point,' to see 
if we could catch a glimpse of the Europa. 

" Well, one morning I was wakened from a sound 
sleep by my sister calling to me that the Europa had 
been signalled hours ago, and was now sailing up the 
harbour. I did not know why, but from constantly 
having the name dinned into my ears, I began to 
take some interest in the vessel; so I dressed as 



MRS. RAPHAEL POSE. 341 

quickly as I could, and hurried down in time to see a 
noble frigate gliding slowly and majestically past the 
town, to her usual anchorage opposite the dock -yard. 
There she w T as, slowly passing, and so near, that I 
could see the sailors distinctly taking in sail, and 
hear the boatswain's whistle, and the man in the 
chains heaving the lead and sino-ins; out, from time to 
time, exactly as I had read in Marryatt's novels. 
Little did I think what a source of torment that 
vessel was to prove to me ! In short, on board of 
her, as third lieutenant, was the naval officer I told 
you of in my letter. 

"From the first time that I saw this Lieutenant 
Boltrop — a fine, black-whiskered fellow — and found 
him established at the Kilmans, with all the girls 
hanging around him, and dwelling on every word he 
said, I took a sort of instinctive dislike to the man. 
I don't know whether my letter betrayed to you the 
state of my feelings towards Kate Kilman. I 
don't think I rightly understood them myself until 
I saw her flirting with this naval officer. Then I 
began to experience anything but the philosophical 
indifference I had felt when she flirted with me 
alone. Before Lieutenant Boltrop had appeared on 
the scene, I may have liked Kate, but I was sure I 
did not love her. It seemed as if I could have 
left her at any moment. Now, I caught myself 
taking a strange interest in her proceedings : feeling 
quite shocked at her indelicacy in flirting so openly 



342 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

with another ; and as for the Lieutenant, I thought 
him one of the most infernally impudent fellows I 
had. ever clapped eyes on. 

"In short, my symptoms were such as to make me 
suspect I must be after all in love with Kate. I 
underwent all the disagreeably sudden changes of 
mind which are incidental to this disorder. At one 
time I had resolved to think no more of Kate — to 
forget her as one quite unworthy of my attachment ; 
the next moment I was determined not to leave 
the field to my rival, but to shoot him, if necessary, 
and bear off Kate in triumph. Such extraordinary 
beings are we men, and so selfish is our love. I wished 
to flirt with Kate without committing myself, and 
hinder any one else from saying a civil thing to her; 
after all, there's nothing like a spice of jealousy to 
teach us that we do love. 

" Neither did I know exactly what to make of 
Kate. Sometimes I was firmly persuaded that she 
flirted with the Lieutenant ' con amove,' as I had 
previously thought she did with me. Then, again, 
I would fancy, under the influence of a dash of 
kindness in her manner, that she was really doing it 
all to pique me, and that she secretly preferred me 
to my rival. How this terrible want of candour on 
the part of man and woman to each other causes us 
to play at cross purposes, and frequently to forfeit 
our own happiness! I felt at times tempted to 
speak out, to confess my love, and either be accepted 



MRS. RAPHAEL POSE. 343 

or refused; but somehow the thought that if she 
were really in love with the Lieutenant, she would 
enjoy my disappointment, after all our flirtation, 
hindered me from putting myself into her power. 

" Moreover, till the Lieutenant came, I had stood 
A 1 in the family, and now I was obliged to play 
second fiddle, which didn't e suit my book no how, 5 
as the Yankees say. For the Lieutenant had the 
advantage of novelty, and was really a handsome 
man, and could spin very amusing yarns, though he 
certainly scrupled not to draw the long bow at times, 
and imposed upon the ignorance of the Kiltnan 
family, relative to marine and other matters : telling 
how, on one occasion, being on shore at Rome, he 
md a party of shipmates had entered St. Peter's for 
i frolic, and had pushed their way up so close to the 
sacred College of Cardinals, that they could see 
those flamingo-coloured gentry talking and laughing 
among themselves at the very moment the host was 
being elevated; and how, as a British officer, he 
had obtained an interview with the Pope, and had 
left his holiness very much impressed with some new 
ideas on Protestantism ; and how, on another occa- 
sion, the whole ship's company had been obliged, 
from a scarcity of provisions, to live so long on rats, 
that at last they contracted a violent longing for 
them, and infinitely preferred them to salt beef, so 
that a rat would sell for nearly its weight in silver. 

" Had I not such good cause to be jealous of him, 
I could have enjoyed the humour with which he told 



344 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

these and numerous stories, and the artless simplicity 
with which they were listened to by the Kilmans ; 
especially the way in which he drew out the maiden 
aunt (who had lived in America, and on the strength 
of having crossed the Atlantic twice, conceived her- 
self quite knowing in nautical matters) to tell a 
favourite story of hers about a promising young 
man, 6 who had been persuaded, against the wishes 
of his friends, by some dissolute companions, to rush 
upon his fate in a Nantucket whaler, and how, in the 
midst of a violent storm, when the vessel's taffrail 
was plunging through the water, and the spray was 
dashing over the top-gallant bowline?, the captain 
sent him up one of the man-ropes to take in a reef 
in the jib-boom, and up came one of those horrid 
mountainous waves and wafted the poor young man 
right away into eternity ! ! ! ' 

" He also contrived to persuade one of the younger 
girls (Agnes, I think) to let him read aloud a naval 
story, which she had begun to write on the model 
of Marryatt, whose novels she had been poring over 
for a long time, and which began as follows: — 

u * The ship had had her topmasts, studding-sails, 
and royals all set, preparatory to walking the waters 
like a thing of life. She was only waiting to take in 
ballast; and a gallant young sailor was taking this 
opportunity of saying farewell to a beautiful young 
damsel, with remarkably large, well-opened, blue 
eyes. At length the boatswain piped all hands, the 
young sailor nimbly jumped over the hammock-* 



MRS. RAPHAEL POSE. 345 

nettings on to the quarter-deck, and with a broad- 
side which made every timber quiver, and three 
hearty British cheers, the noble vessel cut her cable, 
and careened over to the breeze which filled her 
shrouds ' 

" This was all that we ever heard of the novel, for 
our merriment became so great at this point, that 
Agnes, with tears sparkling in her eyes and pouting 
lips, snatched the MS. from the Lieutenant's hands, 
and bore it away in dudgeon. 

" Then there were so many parties of pleasure, in 
w r hich the Lieutenant was the prime mover ; and 
it was every day either, ' Oh ! the Lieutenant is 
going to show us over the frigate ; ' or, - Oh ! 
there's to be a lunch on board the frigate, and a 
dance, and the Lieutenant's asked us all ; and oh ! 
you must come, Mr. Pose/ — that the Lieutenant 
became, as you may suppose, the great obstacle 
to my peace of mind, — in short, my rock a-head. 

u At last, I heard a report which made a new man 

of me, and determined me to remain in P , 

which I had just resolved to leave. Her Majesty's 
frigate, Europa, was under immediate sailing orders. 
Oh, how I revelled in the idea of my rival's speedy 
departure! For all his prestige as a naval officer, 
with a swab on his shoulder, the Lords of the 
Admiralty had but to issue a ukase, and Lieutenant 
Boltrop became a puppet. I at least was a free man. 
I could stay or leave as I liked. On the day 
appointed for her sailing, I delayed going to the 



346 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

Kilmans' until I should see the Europa fairly off. 
Never did I watch the process of ' making sail and 
weighing anchor' with more lively satisfaction. 'It 
don't take her long to get under weigh, sir/ said an old 
waterman, touching his hat, ' with them five hundred 
active chaps as she has aboard.' ( No, my man, 
no,' I replied ; and I was so delighted that I asked 
him some trivial question and gave him a shilling, 
which having duly spit on for luck, he pocketed with 
many invocations of happiness and long life to my 
honor. At last, w r hen I had seen the frigate 
lessening in the distance, I bent my steps towards 
the Kilmans'* 

" On my way, I resolved on my future course of 
action. If I found the Lieutenant had not carried 
off Kate's heart with him, then I would be on the 
same footing with her as I had been before he came. 
If I thought she loved the Lieutenant, but still wished 
to use me as a make-weight in his absence, then I 
would take my revenge by flirting with one of the 
other sisters before her face. I had begun to debate 
seriously with myself which it should be, Clara, or 
Jane, or Maria, w T hen I reached the house, and, 
finding the door open, walked in without knocking, 
as I had often done before. My foot-fall made no 
sound on the stair-carpet, so I was able to approach 
the drawing-room without being observed, and then 

what do you think I saw through the partly open 

door? the LIEUTENANT! as I live, sitting 

on the sofa between Kate and Clara, his arm round 



MRS. RAPHAEL POSE. 347 

a waist of each, and kissing — yes, actually kissing — 
first one and then the other, and he kissed Kate a 
great deal more than he did Clara; for the latter 
said, addressing hiin by his Christian name : ' Quit, 
Henry — for shame ! you'll make me jealous/ 

" To explain my feelings at this sight would be 
impossible. The most overwhelming surprise to find 
the Lieutenant there, the last man I expected to see 
while his ship was actually sailing out of the harbour ; 
the dislike I had long borne him was raised at once 
to a climax of the most furious jealousy and hate, at 
beholding him toying there before my eyes with the 
woman I loved ; for now I knew that I loved Kate, 
I trembled with concentrated, pent-up passion, as I 
saw him twining her ringlets round his fingers. If I 
had stayed another moment I should have given way 
to the strong impulse I felt within me to rush into 
the room and grapple with him for life or death ; but 
the thought came : for whom was I going to do this? 
For one who loved me ? No ; but for one who had 
betrayed and played w^ith me. No, I would not 
give her such a triumph as to let her see my 
sufferings. I mastered myself by a strong effort, 
and stole down stairs as noiselessly as I had entered ; 
but how I passed the rest of that dreadful day, I 
know not. I have a confused idea of wandering 
in the country, of lying down under trees, and 
getting up and running again, as if by rapid motion 
alone I could banish thought. When I came to 



348 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

myself, I found myself in a wood at midnight, about 

twelve miles distant from P . 

"When I reached home, my mother and sister were 
terribly frightened. They saw that something had 
happened, but that it was useless to question me in my 
present mood. On the following morning, I had 
begun to reflect more coolly, and congratulated 
myself on not having given way to my fit of 
jealousy on the previous day ; but a note which 
arrived from the Kilmans, worded in the usual 
manner, and asking us to spend the evening there, 
brought back my feelings of indignation. My sister 
rushed into the room to know what I was laughing 
at, for I was enjoying a stage cacchination, a regular 
diabolical Ha y ha! with this advantage over the 
stereotyped dramatic laugh, that there was no acting 
whatever about mine. ' Ha, ha ! ' I continued ; ' they 
send this — this — to me ! ' 6 Well,' said my sister, 
reading the letter, ' I see nothing in it ; it's all right, 
"Come and take tea with us in a family way this even- 
ing " — of course we'll go.' ' Go ! oh yes — of course, I'll 
go — ' said I, with bitter irony; but my sister had taken 
the answer in its literal sense, and was off like a 
volatile girl (as all girls seemed to me at that 
moment) to acquaint my mother with the invitation. 
I kept repeating to myself the words, 6 I'll go, — I'll 
go ! oh yes, I'll go ! ' until they began to acquire a 
new meaning to me. 'Why should I not go ? 9 
I thought, 'and confront this — arch-coquette — this 



MRS. RAPHAEL POSE. 349 

— this icoman, and confound her with cold contempt, 
overwhelm her with confusion as I unfold to her 
my knowledge of her treachery and double-dealing.' 
/ went. 

" Oh ! that Kate ! that Kate ! what a mistress of 
deception I thought her that evening. If I had not 
known her hypocrisy now, I would have sworn she 
loved me. All her attention had come back to me. 
She hardly looked at the Lieutenant, and he, for his 
part, took little or no notice of her. All this was 
done to disarm suspicion. Oh, how I hated her ! 
how I despised her as she played off her winning 
looks, her dulcet words, and all her wiles at me, as 
if I had been really the being she cared most about 
in the world! But at length my cold and altered 
demeanour could be overlooked no longer. 

et c Why, what is the matter with you to-night ? 
You're a regular glumstick, I declare. Miss Pose, 
do come and help me to scold your brother. He 
can be so agreeable when he chooses. He's quite 
changed ; I don't know what's come over him.' 

" My sister entered into the raillery ; but she 
felt uneasy at heart to learn the cause of my strange 
absence on the previous evening, and the disorder in 
which I had returned. 

" ' Dear boy !' she said, looking at me with a glance 
of fond affection ; e I can't tell. I wish you'd prevail 
on him to give you some of his confidence — he won't 
tell us ; but I'm sure he's met with some disagreeable 
adventure, for he was out till nearly four this morn- 



350 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

ing, and if you'd only seen him when he came back — 
how pale and miserable he was looking.' 

" ' Oh, you naughty, naughty man ! ' said Miss Kate, 
looking at me. ' But I vow you shan't be so dis- 
agreeable and sit so mumchance. I don't want to pry 
into your confidence of course; but really it isn't right, 
if some fair lady has been deceiving you, to put out 
your vengeance on us innocent people.' 

" I muttered the word ' innocent,' very bitterly ; I 
was afraid of exploding every minute. 

"'Why, I do believe he's cross in earnest!' said 
Kate. \ Come sir, I'll take the fit out of you ; get up 
this minute and dance the schottische.' 

" Who the deuce can play ' Timon' with a pretty 
woman ? Even though I detested her for the part 
she was playing, I was obliged to veil my feelings 
under trivial talk like her own. 

" ' Hadn't you better dance with the Lieutenant?' 
I said. 

" ' Oh ! no, I hate him for a partner. You're a sweet 
partner, now.' 

" She hated him for a partner, and yet she was going 
to take him for a partner for life ; for of course he 
had proposed to her yesterday, just before the scene 
I witnessed. I couldn't trust myself to maintain 
the insouciance of good breeding any longer; I felt 
my voice breaking a little as I said, ' I'd rather 
practise the step of the mazurka with you in the 
other room.' 

" ' Oh! tvill you said Kate, with the utmost alacrity; 



MRS. RAPHAEL POSE. 351 

and, taking my arm, she led me into the other 
room/ 

" I sat down on the sofa besides her ; several times 
I essayed to speak, but in vain. At last I made shift 
to get out the words :— 

" * Kate — I mean Miss Kilman — I want to speak to 
you : I have something of serious importance to say 
to you ; perhaps you can guess what it is ?' 

" She blushed and looked somewhat disconcerted. 

" ' I am glad to find, Miss Kilman,' I continued, 
c that you are not quite so hardened in deception as I 
thought you were this evening ; that you can blush, 
and tremble, and fear to look me in the face, as well 
you may.' 

" She looked up at once, and her face was scarlet 
as she said, 6 Mr. Pose, what do you mean ? 9 

" ' Oh ! ' said I, c Miss Kilman, it's no use affecting 
ignorance — I know all.' 

" 6 Mr. Pose, are you mad ? ' 

" ' Not quite,' I replied ; c though you did your best 
to make me so yesterday. Kate, I won't reproach 
you ; your own conscience will do that sufficiently, 
when I tell you, that I have found out the part you 
have been playing all along — in short, that I was 
at the drawing-room door at four o'clock, when Mr. 
Boltrop was here.' 

" s Were you ? good gracious ! why didn't you come 
in, then ?" said Kate, in the most natural tone in the 
world. 

" ' Oh ! Kate,' said I, Q this is too much !' Have you 



352 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

no shame left ? Well, then, since you will have it — I 
saw the whole scene. The Lieutenant was on the 
sofa, between you and your eldest sister Clara, and 
— and — Kate — I saw him — kiss you and play with 
your ringlets V 

" I brought these words out quite slowly, for I 
though they would be the climax. Judge of my 
surprise and astonishment, when, instead of Kate 
hiding her head in shame and confusion, as I fully 
expected she would, she looked up in my face quite 
calmly and said, ' Well, and is that all ? ' 

" I could contain myself no longer ; I burst into a 
torrent of reproaches : ' And you,' said I — 4 you have 
allowed me all along to be near you — to talk to you — to 

take your hand — to dance with you — to fancy that 

and yet I think I could have pardoned all, but your 
duplicity this very evening. Knowing what took place 
between you and the Lieutenant yesterday afternoon, 
how could you have the heartlessness to persevere in 
the double part you were playing towards me — how 
could you — had you no pity— thus, up to the last 
moment, to sport with my feelings — to render me the 
victim of a hopeless attachment ! Cruel, cruel girl ! 
how could you act thus ?' I started up and paced the 
room in my excitement. ' Oh God ! Kate, I knew 
not till I saw this detestable Lieutenant here, how 
truly I loved you. If you had told me of this sooner ; 
if you had given me the slightest hint that he was to 
be the happy man, I had magnanimity enough to 
stifle all my own feelings of disappointment. I would 



MRS. RAPHAEL POSE. 353 

have hidden my own sufferings and found some con- 
solation in the thought, that you were united to him 
you loved best; but now, after having accepted 
Boltrop, to enter into a malicious plot with him still 
further to hoodwink me, and render me miserable, 
shows me that you have a bad heart. Why should I 
waste my breath in these reproaches ? A woman who 
could act as you have done, can have no conscience 
to feel the sting of my words ; but with Lieutenant 
Boltrop I must have an explanation.' 

"I paused abruptly, wondering she did not get up 
and leave the room. To do her justice, she did appear 
at length to feel ashamed, if I might judge so by the 
way she sat reclining forward, her face leaning on 
her rounded arm, which was supported on the sofa ; 
her hair falling over, and shrouding it from my view. 
Even in that moment, I was struck by the lovely 
contrast between the white skin and the glossy brown 
of her drooping curls, and the fine subject which the 
pose and contour of the whole figure presented for a 
picture, when stepping nearer, I discovered that 
she was as pale as death, and on the verge of fainting. 
In a moment all my anger was forgotten ; I saw only 
a fainting woman. I had taken her in my arms, and 
was about to call for assistance, when her eyes opened 
for a moment, and she said in tremulous voice, i Hush, 
don't call, Raphael; I shall be better directly. 5 And 
so I sat there on the sofa, holding in my arms, in the 
tenderest of attitudes, the woman who had been pur- 
suing a long course of deception towards me; and 

A A 



354 GEINS AND WRINKLES. 

wsa engaged to another man now dancing in the 
next room to us ! It was a peculiar situation. If the 
Lieutenant chanced to come in, he would probably 
challenge me under the very natural impression, that 
I was making love to his affianced ; and under the cir- 
cumstances, I didn't fancy at all being shot for a 
mistake. 

"Kate was some time coming too, (agreat deallonger 
indeed than I wished,) and occasionally murmured, 
what I thought rather incoherent and misplaced 
words, such as : ' How delicious ! — what a delightful 
mistake! — how shall I break it to him? 9 At last, 
when I thought I might fairly transfer my burden 
to the sofa, without being guilty of rudeness, I said : 
C I will now take my leave, Miss Kilman; it would 
be improper for me to remain any longer under this 
roof. All further explanation is of course quite 
unnecessary, under the circumstances/ 

" ' But, dear Raphael ? ■ 

" e Miss Kilman/ I said, c if you are not satisfied 
with the suffering you have already inflicted — if 
your object is to compromise me, and get me into a 
quarrel with the Lieutenant, be assured I will not 
balk you ; but I see no use in prolonging this tete- 
a-teteJ But she clung to me, so that I could not 
extricate myself, as she said : 

" ' Dear Raphael, don't for heaven's sake go in a 
passion, hear me — suppose you have been quite 
mistaken ' 

" ' Ha ! ha ! mistaken. Can't I trust my own eyes V 






MRS. RAPHAEL POSE. 355 

" ' Yes, yes. I don't deny a word that you have 
spoken, that the Lieutenant did kiss me ; but we are 

not engaged for all that ' 

" ' Then/ said I coldly, ' the affair looks, I should 
think, still more extraordinary.' 

u ' Not at all, dear Eaphael, didn't he kiss Clara 

too ?' 

" c That was excusable in a brother-in-law that is 

to be.' 

" e That's it, dear Eaphael, that's where you made 
the mistake. Lieutenant Boltrop did kiss his sister- 
in-law, that is to be, when he kissed me. He and 
Clara are engaged. He's got leave of absence and 
they're to be married in a fortnight' 

" Need I tell you how, in that moment, all my 
doubts vanished, how the truth flashed upon me, — 
my causeless jealousy of the Lieutenant, had made me 
view every circumstance in a false light. I caught 
Kate in my arms — ' Dearest girl, will you, can you 
forgive me, and — and — can you love me, after all my 
unjust reproaches ? ' 

" i Yes, dear Raphael,' answered the frank creature; 
1 for your jealousy, though causeless, showed me for 
the first time how deeply you loved me.' 

" I won't undertake to say* how long Kate and I 
sat on the sofa, together, after that. As for the 
mazurka, we never once thought of it. We explained 
and explained, and began over and over again, and 
turned and twisted my mistakes in every possible 
way, and interrupted each other so constantly that a 



356 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

listener, of a mathematical mind, would have thought 
we left the matter more involved than when we 
commenced ; however, we were perfectly satisfied. 
We forgot all about the dancing going n in the 
next room, and not till Fanny had run in and out 
three times to call us to supper, and we found our- 
selves at last the centre of a quizzing throng, did 
we return from the new world, into which we had 
so suddenly glided, and take cognisance of other 
beings beside ourselves. 

" A merry supper-party we had that night, and the 
first thing, you may be sure, I did was to congratu- 
late the worthy Lieutenant, on his approaching mar- 
riage with Clara, and ask his pardon for the preju- 
dice which my absurd suspicions had caused me to 
entertain against him. It was granted, with a hearty 
laugh ; and, as I wrung the manly fellow's hand, I 
wondered at my own stupidity, for having ever 
imagined he could stoop to league against me. The 
whole thing was now plain enough. He had loved 
Clara long ; but, being strangely bashful, in spite of 
all his jollity and savoir faire, had always availed 
himself of the good offices of Kate (the adjutant of 
the household) with her sister. Of course I, in my 
blind jealousy, couldn't comprehend the possibility 
of his loving any of the sisters, beautiful as they 
all were, but Kate. On the day before, he had 
succeeded, with Kate's influence, in prevailing on 
Clara (who had been somewhat wilful and cruel) to 
give a decided 'yes,' and even to permit him to 



MRS. RAPHAEL POSE. 357 

name an early day for their marriage, on account of 
the brief leave of absence he had obtained. It was 
the denouement of this scene which I had witnessed ; 
and his demonstrations of gratitude towards his 
ally Kate, I had misconstrued, as I have already 
related. 

" In short," concluded my friend, " Kate and I 
were married, on the same day with Clara and the 
Lieutenant. Since then we have been travelling on 
the Continent, and we have only been in Rose Villa 
two months. I was on the point of despatching 
cards to you when I unexpectedly met you to-day. 
I owe you an apology for not having done so before; 
but really, though we have been married a year, I 
can hardly believe sometimes, that the honey-moon 
is over, for I do think we love each other better 
and better every day. This is the only excuse I 
have to offer for my remissness." 

" And a capital one too, my dear friend,'' we 
began — when we were stopped by a skilful pre- 
lude on the piano, and then a sweet voice sung 
the following lines of Moore, to a beautiful Portu- 
i air: — 

Dost thou remember that place so lonely, 
A place for lovers, and lovers only, 

Where first I told thee all my secret sighs % 
When, as the moonbeam, that trembled o'er thee, 
Illum'd thy blushes, I knelt before thee, 

And read my hope's sweet triumph in those eyes ? 
Then, then, while closely heart was drawn to heart, 
Love bound us — never, never more to part ! 



358 GRINS AND WRINKLES. 

There was nothing very wonderful in Mrs. Pose's 
voice, but she sang in a very pleasing manner, never- 
theless ; and we could easily account for our friend's 
eyes glistening, as we thought how many delicious 
souvenirs of his courtship this song in all probability 
recalled. 

Need we protract the story? need we tell how we 
joined his young wife, how he went up and embraced 
her at the piano, leaving our feelings out of the ques- 
tion. How we found tea waiting, and how w6 
thought Mrs. Pose looked more radiantly lovely than 
ever, as she presided and dispensed to us the ({ cups 
which cheer, but not inebriate." How after tea we had 
more music, until w r e totally forgot how time went and 
Raphael informed us, with a significant grin, that we 
had missed the " 'bus," and so must stay all night ; 
how we in vain stood out against the proposal of a 
glass of toddy. How our scruples were at length van- 
quished, and how, while Raphael rang for hot water 
which was brought up by the tidy servant, his wife 
bustled about getting the sugar and tumblers out of 
a closet, purely, as I believe, from the sweetness of 
her disposition, to show us how welcome we were, 
and because she loved to wait upon her husband and 
her husband's friends ; and how after our first 
tumbler, Mrs. Pose shook hands with us, and kissed 
her husband and retired, saying she knew we had'nt 
finished our tete-d-tete ; and how on the strength of 
the mutual confidence inspired by another tumbler, 
we ventured to ask Raphael how the maiden-aunt 



MRS. RAPHAEL POSE. 35 9 

had behaved, when he replied, "Like a trump, she 
gave Kate one thousand on her wedding-day, and 
will give her five thousand at her demise ; " and how 
I retired to my bachelor couch, thinking my friend 
had indeed obtained a treasure in his wife, and 
wishing my luck would make me acquainted with a 
young lady with such a maiden aunt. 

The next morning, at breakfast, Raphael actually 
quizzed us before his wife, about his sister-in-law, 
Miss Jane Kilman, whose health he avowed we 
had drunk quite rapturously the previous evening — - 
nay, he even went so far as to repeat several speeches 
which he said we had made respecting her; but as we 
recollect nothing whatever of the matter, of course 
it must have been only some of Master Raphael's fun, 
Miss Jane, however, is really coming to stay some 
time at Rose Cottage ; and if we thought she would 
make as good a w T ife as Mrs. Raphael Pose, we 
should be strongly tempted to avail ourself of her 

brother-in-law's good offices in our behalf, and 

But what are we gossiping about? Our story is 
finished. Gentle reader, Vale. 



THE END. 



London 

haddon, brothers, and co., printers, 

castle street, fjnsbury. 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




014 385 849 2 




